


Grand Master Kenobi

by lowstandards



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Actually is it mutual???, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, I do NOT know how to tag shit, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowstandards/pseuds/lowstandards
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi reveres the Jedi Council. He relies on them, for without them how could he teach the Chosen One? He would do anything they ask, since after all, they serve the will of the Force.Only, as darkness seeps into light, oppressing the galaxy’s unassuming inhabitants, Yoda makes a decision. Geonosis leaves him weak and shaken, afraid for the return of the Sith and the Republic’s unstoppable descent into war. Even he is not fit to lead the Jedi alone.The Order needs a new face, one of peace and light for the galaxy to see, to follow, and to hope for.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 83
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 🥳 Who’s ready for a new work because yes I know I’m ignoring my other WIPs!!  
> Ideally, I plan to publish a chapter a week. And just a note going into this: while OF COURSE there is a plot and each chapter builds off the ones before it, this is told more as a collection of moments and feelings than anything. So if you feel like something is missing or not explained... yeah, I did that on purpose! I am sorry if it leaves some missions and tensions feeing unfinished for you, but I hope the over all story and idea conveys :)  
> That might seem like a silly note but as a I write/add this note, I have not yet finished the story and continue to publish chapters where weeks/months pass in the story seemingly quickly.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Sometimes, the heat of Geonosis still burned in his nostrils. Acrid and unfriendly dry sand and hate— the beginning of it all. It churned the dark reality of his recent days into bile in his gut. From the first sign of it with that blasted dart to the discovery of a million clones churned out on stormy and discrete Kamino. Too much in too little time, and still so much left to unfold, and all of it hidden, unseeable, in the darkness clouding the Force. It smeared the future into unreadable blurs and snippets, and more than anything into an overwhelming sense of dread. 

The other Jedi should not have come. Those lives should not have been lost. Though of course, if they had not arrived, he would have died in that arena. Perhaps that would have been for the better.

He felt sand where there was none. Under his nails, in his hair, in his eyes and mouth and in the folds of his tunics and the very limited empty space of his boots. Urgency stole away his time for washing up or meditating properly, but even his rushed cleaning on the transport back to Coruscant removed all physical souvenirs of the cratered planet. Well, it removed the dust and dirt. It did not miraculously heal his wounds or anyone else’s. If it had, he would not have rushed to the Halls of Healing and sat firmly refusing to leave while simultaneously brushing off all attempts of the healers to aid him. 

He was not there for himself. 

Admittedly, he hurt; the lightsaber slash on his bicep still burned. It throbbed like an old wound, demanding attention and cleansing. It demanded his attention but with sharp inhales and desperately controlled exhales, he ignored it. Just as he ignored the aches in his limbs, the smaller cuts littering the rest of him, marks from blaster fire singeing his clothing, from flying debris, bruising too. In time, all would heal. Skin would restitch itself, blossoming bruises would fade into unmarked skin, he would once more properly wash and that phantom sand would cease pestering him. 

But time would not regrow limbs. 

Healer Vokara Che approached, the tips of her lekku twitching in a revealing sign of her restrained exasperation. “Knight Kenobi, I ask that so long as you insist on staying here to see after your Padawan, you accept our offer to mend your own injuries.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi blinked. His eyes stung. Too long without sleep, not just the days without rest but the years unable to ever feel fully at peace. Haunted by the ever darkening Force, by memories and feelings alike. The present did nothing to soothe the past pains. Just as bacta and Force healing could not soothe what truly troubled him. 

“I am fine, Master Che. I thank you for your offer.” He swallowed a tight smile. If it made it to his face at all, it did not pass as genuine, only as a pitiful attempt at formalities he did not wish to indulge. 

More noticeably, she frowned. He even felt her unguarded irritation ripple off her Force signature. It caught him enough to properly look up at her. How pathetic he must appear, slumped in his chair outside a room the healers forbid him to enter. Since returning to Coruscant he refused to leave Anakin’s side, even when other Jedi and guards led him away, insisting he care for himself instead. At every chance he denied them and held stronger to the cot carrying Anakin’s limp form. Even in unconsciousness - a mix of initially passing out from pain and shock, then turned into a Force aided slumber - his face creased in agony and discomfort. He wanted to smooth out those lines but would not allow it of himself so long as his hands remained unclean with dirt and blood and sweat and machine oil. So when the healers took him and shut him away, so they might carry out their sacred task and discover better than Obi-Wan could tell for himself whether Anakin Skywalker could be saved at all, he still frowned with all the fury and hurt of being struck down by a wizened and powerful Sith. More than anything, Obi-Wan still wished to smooth away signs of trouble, so when Anakin woke - for Obi-Wan clung to the idea it was a matter of _when_ and not _if_ \- he might, even if only for a moment, experience peace. 

Vokara Che cleared her throat as though she already once tried for his attention and he missed it. “Obi-Wan, my apologies if you misunderstand that as a request. Either allow me to at least assess your wounds or leave this Hall entirely. I will not have an injured Jedi stinking up a delicate balance so he may wallow and deny himself one of the only comforts available to him. Your Padawan is hurt, I am as aware of this as you are. You have done all you can and no one doubts that. But if I may be so bold, one of the first to point out how foolishly you are behaving would be the very Padawan you’re hell bent on hurting yourself over.” 

Obi-Wan blinked. Those words jarred him more than the jumps in and out of lightspeed during his journey, and more than the dawning reality of his situation. Vokara Che laid out quite clearly what he saw for himself and stripped it of his indulgently self pitying lens. “I-“ he began to defend, but caught the sardonic quirk to her brow and stopped himself. 

“Of course. May I at least know how he is?” 

“Are you conceding or will you continue to obstruct my duty?” She asked pointedly. Obi-Wan made no sign of departure, but pleading desperation passed over his usually so controlled visage. 

“I only wish to know his status so I might know to stay, or if it would indeed be better to go.” He admitted, voice barely avoiding a waver that would betray his weakness. 

Chief Healer Vokara Che was not unkind. Rather, she and the Halls of Healing were far too celebrated a staple of the Temple to do anything other than amaze all less familiar with such aspects of the Force. The Hall itself impressed with its architectural artistry. It’s high windows of painterly colors, casting murals and glass ornamentation into rich displays. Lofty ceilings surrounded an energy of love and nurturing, stretching up as if to the heavens, and holding the Force so warmly that each step into this realm was a step into the golden vibrancy of peace itself. A place for safety and of course, for healing. Rest and convalescence. Suffering to be washed away. A place for Jedi to safely heal among other Jedi, in companionship with the Force. 

Yet so frequently, a place of so much pain, for to enter these Halls, one must be injured. And if not injured themself, then perhaps visiting one who is— or even as an initiate or healer, a Jedi enters this sacred heart to commit their life to the noble pursuit of saving their fellow members from hurt and death and misery considered inevitable. 

So for all it’s beauty, and for all the kindness of the healers, Obi-Wan found his deep seated tension unshakeable. It came naturally stepping into this realm that did not belong to him and expecting only more disappointment. It was a particularly un-Jedi-like fear, for it most definitely arose from a place of very tremendous fear. 

Master Che sighed. Again, not unkindly. “Since his arrival, Young Skywalker remains in a healing trance. I would like to state such a treatment is recommended for you as well, not only for the physical exhaustion and pain of your body, but for the mental trauma as well.”

Obi-Wan waved a hand. “No. My wounds are minor and a trance would prevent me from being available to Anakin.”

“Who hardly needs you as is. He shall remain in the trance until his prosthetic is ready. And even then he must be monitored closely. I will not belittle you by explaining the implications of his loss.” Now the tilt to her head carried an authoritative air and not disdain. Obi-Wan swallowed anxiety, a heavy and sour lump in his throat. He knew from the sight of the cauterized stump below Anakin’s elbow that there would be no reattaching the limb, not even through the miracle of even the very best Force Healers. And no, he did not need her to verbalize what they both knew, and for that he was grateful. To hear it said would deepen the wound. 

The loss of the limb would damage Anakin’s connection to the Force. To a normal sentient, the shock of losing an arm would be unbearable enough, and the transition to a prosthetic even more arduous. That alone presented a practical and substantial enough problem. Trauma, phantom limb— and no matter how the technology excelled, it would always exist in comparison to what once was. Did it feel the same, look the same, behave the same— questions could roll endlessly. Yet these inquiries doubled, quadrupled— multiplied unknowingly all because Anakin lost not only a very physical and very real part of himself - five fingers, hand, wrist, forearm, an expanse of skin and muscle and bone, sinew and tissue honed by life and training and most importantly, by the Force. He lost that too. A very physical and very real extension of that blessing bestowed upon him. The Chosen One’s connection to the great unifying Force cut down on Geonosis. 

“Then I will accept your help, if you insist.” Obi-Wan’s eyes flitted to the scorch marks on his hands. They were another pain he passed on into the Force. Everything that was his own, all pain and thoughts of himself he tried to let go, but guilt and fear lingered. Geonosis, Anakin, and now his own mind— in all areas he failed miserably at adhering to peace and serenity, to any precept of the Order. 

“I do.” Vokara asserted. She beckoned and he dutifully followed, but felt some part of him stayed anchored to that seat, to that lonely vigil outside Anakin’s room. Each step felt like a betrayal, that he abandoned Anakin, the fault his own that his Padawan lay there with future uncertain and arm burned away. 

“If you refuse my recommendation of a healing trance—“

“I do,” he echoed her own assertion. Something about it softened her features. He almost expected a deserved display of irritation— Force knew if he were in her place he’d be furious with his stubborn and idiotic self. 

“—then the best I can do for you is a local anaesthetic and bacta treatment.” She finished with a polite yet tight smile. Surely she did not find his inconvenient devotion to his Padawan over his own health endearing. So perhaps not endeared— no that wasn’t the word for her look at all. Indulgent, maybe. Begrudgingly understanding that for all Obi-Wan did to make her work harder, it stemmed from a place of compassion. And he accepted _some_ help, and in no way meant to offend her or demean the service she provided. 

Or at least, he hoped she was that accommodating of all the grief he caused her. Doubtless she’d seen it before, from other Master and Padawan duos unfortunately but inevitably erring too close to signs of attachment when it came to moments of life and death. 

Leading him to a clean and empty corner of the Halls, Master Che unfolded a dividing curtain. It separated the two of them and a table from the rest. A cavern where he could no longer hide his pain away. “Sit down, please.” She motioned to the smooth plastoid slab. He could not help but think how convenient a material. A fabric would only absorb and reveal the stains of a history of Jedi pain, and with each new host it would share those touch memories. But this, clean and impersonal, revealed nothing at all to most Jedi. No memories to haunt him other than his own. 

Though he sat, Obi-Wan made no motion to undo his tunic or do anything but wait in mock obedience, playing at a willing participant. Vokara retrieved a small med pack of materials before fixing him with a particularly bothered expression. She need say nothing for him to get the idea: if he was going to fight her every step of the way then he might as well leave now and save them both the trouble. 

With a heaving sigh, ignoring how the breath hurt his lungs, Obi-Wan sat up straighter. Slowly but effectively, he unclasped his belt and slipped off the outer layer of fabric. He could not cast off his pain the same way, and it re-met him like answering tidal waves with each breath. An inhale and his lungs sent sharp stabs through him, reverberating in his shoulders and back. An exhale and he felt nausea roil up in his gut. Muscles burned with exhaustion. He could only imagine the bruises painted under his eyes, bags of weariness hanging off of him more obvious than the gaudy, flashing Holo adverts decorating the lower levels. Left in his tight under layer, Master Che held up a hand. 

“Wait a moment,” she instructed and ducked behind the curtain without giving him the chance to ask why. She reappeared with two things in hand: one was a rather hefty looking pill and the second was a simple glass of water. “Two purposes,” she nodded and extended both to him. “Pain relief and vitamins. You’re exhausted and there are many things your body lacks right now. These will only do a little to replace what it really needs.” 

He felt the weighty suggestion: he needed rest, not a check up as quick as if he were on a battlefield. This Order and her care entitled him to be selfish and looked after properly, instead he refused and allowed only this impersonal affair, as though nothing more could be afforded. But worse, what a thought— already behaving with the urgency as if at war. That was the last thing the galaxy needed. 

“Thank you.” Genuine kindness crept between them as he swallowed the pill and took two extra gulps. It did a poor job at concealing the demands of his body. His stomach may as well have growled ravenously too for all that his body and its needs betrayed him. But the thought of eating made that nausea resurface, so he cast that away quicker than it came. 

Waving her hand for him to proceed, he once more set to unraveling the folds of his clothing. The tight undershirt slipped off his shoulders reluctantly. Obi-Wan could not even deny himself a hiss of sharp pain as the fabric pulled away from his left arm. There Dooku had struck him and though changing on the transport prevented the original singed garment from worsening the wound, it did nothing to prevent its replacement from fusing to the raw skin. Sweat and fluid softened the tissue so it stuck eagerly to the tight tunic sleeve, and when he pulled it off the gash reopened appallingly. 

Obi-Wan’s lip curled up. He turned his head to look at the now ripped worse injury. He assumed the cauterization of that crimson lightsaber’s flame would keep such a thing from occurring— but clearly he knew nothing of wounds and healing. 

Che clucked her tongue and did not pretend it was anything other than an unpromising sight. She clicked open her medpack and admitted, “I will be able to do nothing for the burn and wound that's there, nothing other than apply bacta, that is. The cauterization makes it impossible to stitch up, so it will scar. I assume your leg looks much the same?”

He nodded through grimaced teeth. His arm hurt worse, though it matched the gash in his leg quite well. 

Then he shook his head. He carried few scars on his body, despite all the adventure of a reckless youth spent under Qui-Gon Jinn’s tutelage. The Halls and the minuscule benefits of the Force that came naturally to him aided in that area. For all the horrors of his life, at least he had little to show for them physically speaking. “I do not mind a scar.” Afterall, what mattered a scar when rooms away his Padawan laid with half an arm stolen from him?

She hummed affirmation. Vanity - much like emotional attachment or indulgence or fear - were not feelings belonging to a perfect Jedi. But Obi-Wan felt too much of the others for the first to remain out of consideration. 

The rifling through medical supplies was the only sound to fill their little corner for a moment, until the Twi’lek healer found what she desired. He did not hiss or even flinch as she injected the local anaesthetic. The Force dulled the effect of a number of foreign substances to the body, so Obi-Wan was quite thankful to lose feeling as he watched her set about cleaning the wound. No doubt it would make his teeth grit if he could feel it. If only that numbness could spread to the rest of him, mind and body, to make the past and coming days easier. Gently a pair of tweezers snipped, removing tiny threads caught in torn open flesh. Still he felt nothing. To contrast the idea of numbness, he instead imagined it hurt, and that it hurt quite a lot. Perhaps that would prove a novel experience too. Pain beyond words. Perhaps that would shock some sense and mortal danger into him when all else failed.

He smelled the bacta first, since he could not feel it’s cold and familiar press. Even the smell served as a balm, it pulled him from the lingering feeling of heat from Geonosis’ flaming sun. A planet of long days, it shone on them brutally, a cruel spotlight to burn every detail of horrors too much for him to bear. Impersonal and antiseptic. Bacta turning a wound into a scar, a painful past to be stitched over with pink skin in time. 

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. He wanted to recoil. He wanted to say the wound was covered so her task was done, but he knew better. Next came the wound on his thigh, then surely she would want to clean a few other small marks, make routine assessments of his obviously poor health. Instead he channeled that compulsion into an urge not familiar to him: the desire to fill the time with chatter. One reason he so disliked politicians was there proclivity for inane conversation, and now for the first time he felt the desire to initiate frivolous conversation well up in him. But even then, he had his limitations and would not steer to a topic so unimportant. No, if he must speak, then let him get something out of it. 

But oh if he didn’t sound like a bumbling youngling as he found the words slowly dripping from his train of thought onto his unexpectant tongue. “Now that I’ve… _carried out_ my half of our deal, might I see my Padawan?” _My Padawan_ he had said, as though it granted him some automatic and obvious authority, the right to be present beside Anakin. That right did not exist, so really the term only belied a fearful possessiveness that once more soured the scarce moisture in Obi-Wan’s mouth. 

Master Che took a half step back, assessing her patient. His leggings were shoved low enough for her to patch his leg same as his arm, though she spared him a second numbing shot. Her eyes gave a clinical scan to a body seen and appreciated by very few, but not lacking in pleasant and passable features. Instead she focused on scorched fingers, scratches from debris, chafed skin, signs of fatigue, broken ribs, bruises blossoming on shoulders, back, and one particularly bad one spreading up from the displaced waistband of his pants and she could only assume it dipped low enough to take over his entire thigh too. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi went to hell and back, was lucky to be alive, and all he cared for was remaining at Anakin’s bedside. 

“The prosthetic was near completion last I checked, and perhaps is finished now. He will not awake on his own so… I suppose I can return you to him. But Kenobi,” she leveled him with a frighteningly firm look. “I will not be bullied in my own Halls. I am not the final say but the _only_ say on Skywalker’s health and well-being. If I ask you to leave, it will not ever be a question of your desires. It is a demand and it _will_ be carried out regardless of your relationship to him.” Straightening up, her eyes never left his and he knew better than to draw his own gaze away. She made quite the display when she wanted to and he did not question her sincerity. Running such a crucial part of Temple life she doubtless encountered such stubbornness with more frequency than she deserved. 

Demurely redressing, he had to agree. He had to because it was easy, but also because he could not tolerate not being there when Anakin awoke. It was his fault after all. Their last words were harsh, both in the arena and on the transport, scolding Anakin for coming to his rescue then getting caught, for dragging Senator Amidala into the mess as well and then Obi-Wan shouted at Anakin to leave her behind. It was a wonder she lived as well. Together they feared for him on the entire journey back. He wasn’t the only one to care deeply for Anakin’s safety, he reminded himself. And even the other Jedi, successful in controlling their emotions, cared and mourned. If not so clouded by darkness, then the Force would have instead clouded with the grief of so many. The whole Order tilted into tragedy and uncertainty. Those were Anakin’s last feelings and moments before his shock, so Obi-Wan could not abandon him to face the first seconds of his new reality alone. 

As if knowing his thoughts - perhaps she did, perhaps he lapsed in his shielding with all his fears cascading through him and projected them all instead - Vokara gently touched his shoulder. A frisson of calm pulsed through him, her hand it’s source. “Skywalker will need to adjust. Something reassuring, such as your comfort, will help him. I cannot be sure what state he shall be in when he wakes. His arm, his physical well-being, I can promise that much, but little more.” 

It served a thinly veiled warning. She would waste no time removing Obi-Wan if he did anything to cause or further Anakin’s mental distress. And even more than that, Anakin’s emotional wellness perhaps _hinged_ on Obi-Wan’s presence and guidance. It came as no surprise, given the way Anakin always clung to him and hurled his emotions— more characteristics unsuited to a Jedi in an already unorthodox bond. 

“However,” Master Che cleared her throat much like he had earlier. An uncomfortable little tickle of a noise, predicting a thing she did not wish to say. Sympathy pulled a crease on her forehead. “The Council wished to see you as soon as you were able. They expected your wounds to be cared for upon arrival,” But since he delayed and rejected her in her duty, meeting now would already be later than the esteemed Jedi High Council was accustomed to. One lone knight delayed them in their duties out of his own stubbornness and refusal to receive treatment. 

“But if I go now—“

“I can delay Anakin’s return to consciousness until then. After everything, it is little recommended to keep the Council waiting. He shall be here when you return, and in much the same condition as he is now.” She nodded when Obi-Wan crossed his arms around a once more fully clothed torso. Thankfully, both the pill and Master Che’s treatments eased his aches. No longer did his muscles protest each little pull and stretch. He almost felt his usual world weary self. How refreshing. 

“Don’t look so doubtful, Obi-Wan,” she genuinely smiled at his sheepish look for being called out. The folding screen collapsed flat again with a soft noise muffled by its own fabrics. She humbled him quite skillfully, giving even old Master Jocasta Nu a run for her credits in the realm of chastising the average Jedi. “I promise I shall wait for your return to wake him as much for Anakin’s sake as for your own.”

It did make him breathe easier. Of course, he slipped into selfishness again. His own feelings meant nothing compared to Anakin’s well-being. If it were better for him to be awoken now, then it should be done, even if it meant Obi-Wan could not be there to hold his hand. Or perhaps not hold his hand… oh Force sake— He never considered how that might affect things. Would Anakin - physical and exuberant Anakin - withdraw as a self conscious consequence of the loss? It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic. He had quite the flair for internalizing such pains, letting them consume him. Obi-Wan only sought to reassure him, but would once common touches turn into painful reminders of what Anakin lost and Obi-Wan didn’t? 

He blinked and sighed, heavy and pained. No longer a physical ache, gloom sank deep through him, traveling with his breath down his throat, expanding in his lungs and then shattering apart to weigh down each fiber of his being. He did not know how to stomach such dread. 

Leaving the Halls of Healing, he felt the same anchors in each footstep. He might as well break the floor, fracture it apart just as he did the safety of the whole Order on Geonosis. So many Jedi lost, all because of his investigation gone wrong, his distress and his summons. In a way, Anakin lucked out in living at all, even with such an obvious loss and limitation. But that was the wrong mindset, and Obi-Wan knew it. Anakin’s pain was his fault too, he couldn’t trick himself into being guiltily thankful Anakin didn’t die when he never should have been hurt at all. 

He tried to shake those thoughts, but some anxieties proved more stubborn than him. They proved such not just because their past now colored with pain and anguish, but Obi-Wan felt horribly that the near future would not see a return to peace and order. 

He was no fool. Finding the clones hinted as much. There were dark days in store for the galaxy. He tried to sense it on his way to Geonosis, following a lead he so desperately wanted to be nothing but knowing vaguely yet surely that such hope would only disappoint. Obi-Wan managed one particular talent for anticipating the unknown and uncovering the probing hints of the Force. Generally, he could sense danger and the slowly developing shapes of the future. But Geonosis proved his failure. It caught him unawares. 

A droid army to match the clone one. Dooku, a confrontation. Even with the factory destroyed, too much was lost to consider anything a gain. There could be no winners in this war or any. 

War. Obi-Wan felt the word in his chest, beating behind his lungs. War. Death and misery. All too easily, Geonosis required the Jedi take up command of the clones, _their_ clones he supposed. Manufactured men reduced to weapons, lives stripped of meaning before conception. Now, whatever conflict the Republic stepped into, whatever Dooku and his Separatists provoked, the Jedi could not step away, could not argue neutrality and peace. The time passed, an opportunity missed, now they could only see things through. 

Light of Coruscant’s daytime did little to comfort him. All the beauty of the Temple paled in intensity to the storm of his feelings. Sun poured in, soft and golden, lit through tall windows to guide him closer and closer to the Jedi Council spire. Despite himself, despite his respect for the highest members of the Order, he wanted nothing less than this inconvenience. Could he not for one moment prioritize something he wanted for himself? Could he not for once be there for his Padawan on his own terms and not those of the Order? 

It was selfish, but maybe, in a crisis, he was selfish. 

He expected the full array of Council members. He expected them on their orange cushioned seats, in a near complete circle around the round room. He expected the light to filter in and reveal a Coruscant continuing as it always did and always would. A city planet in constant motion, transport lanes turned to blurs of light and the idea of the thousands of vehicles streaming past. Buildings reaching up high and still higher, and then dipping to the lowest levels as well. Stretching out, sprawl and structure, metal buildings all filled so abundantly with sentient life. It thrummed like constant music in the Force, living entities in harmony, discord, pleasure, pain— every feeling in the universe condensed into one planet, a pinprick to represent a whole wild expanse of known and unknown space. The Temple felt it all, a beacon of Force and light and life. In the Council spire it reverberated under the watch of the oldest and most powerful and wisest Jedi the Order offered. Obi-Wan expected to be dazzled in the usual way, to make him believe this was a normal day and a normal meeting. 

Instead he entered a darkened room and seats almost entirely empty. The windows shades were drawn low, not completely concealing the light but coloring it grey and foreboding- like life itself drained out of the room. At one end, only two Jedi sat shrouded in haze. Masters Yoda and Windu. 

Obi-Wan, for all his anxieties, halted. He stopped near the center, still paces away from the only inhabitants. “My apologies, Master Che said the Council requested to see me, if—“

“So we did, thank you for coming, Obi-Wan.” Mace Windu nodded. He looked up at his guest, and even in the poor light distress visibly deepened the lines of his face. He shifted away from his focused conversation with the oldest Jedi, whose wrinkled hands gripped his gimer stick. It tapped the ground in consideration, rather absentmindedly. Clearly all their minds were elsewhere. 

“Expected a full audience, perhaps?” Yoda mused. Obi-Wan was not sure if it was a negative accusation or just a curiosity. Finding a more sure standing in the room’s center, he clasped his hands together. If only he wore a robe, so he could hide in its comfort and too long sleeves, so he might hide himself away in familiar fabric. But he lost his robe when Dooku captured him and when changing on transport did not prioritize such a thing. Now he missed the simple and familiar garment. 

“It’s not that I require one,” Obi-Wan frowned, feeling inadequate. No, that wasn’t it— He could admit to himself now, that he just wanted to return to the Halls of Healing. It was not a personal feeling against the Council or the two members that greeted him. Just a stronger desire to be elsewhere. “I only wonder what I may offer you. As soon as I’m able I can consolidate a proper report of my journey before Geonosis.”

“Need a report, we do not.” Yoda rapped his stick again. His ears twitched with reluctant amusement at Obi-Wan’s poorly subdued eagerness. But it was not time to indulge that familiarity either. “And keep you from your Padawan’s side, we will not.” Knowing flashed and Obi-Wan was too relieved to hide it in the name of emotional control. Doubtlessly the more powerful, more knowledged Masters not only saw the hints of his thoughts, but felt them too. 

Windu sat back and steepled his fingers, a familiar sign of his troubled thoughts and probing intentions. “We know you wish to stay by his side and assure you, your devotion does not conflict with your duties.”

Yoda hummed, a wavering and high noise known to anyone within the Order. “Your compassion, we know. But sense new fears, we do. Fear for your Padawan, for the Republic, for the Jedi, and fear for yourself, you have.” Again his stick tapped, a more determined noise. Yoda, a little green thing, appeared so often frail and unassuming. But even in these moments Obi-Wan saw him as he was— not only Jedi Master, but Jedi warrior too. He fought with his words, laid everything out simply. He pursued light, battled in its name and served under the promise of peace. An old leader of a surprisingly older institution. And still the Master made time for Council, for teaching, for sharing the Force with each and every member of the Order. Purpose imbued every aspect of his existence, a purpose through the Force, and a purpose through the boundless compassion one reaches in the light. Obi-Wan felt nothing but respect for him, even as the Master laid out his unsubtle fears so plainly. 

No, not just Master, but Grand Master. A distinction so significant for it spelled out the ultimate honor, it wove a tale around the littlest Jedi. Quite distinctly it said _this one matters, if none else do, this one does_ . Humbly, as an Order, they all carried out their duty. If any deserved individual recognition, it was that who held such a title as Grand Master. And the two of them both, Mace Windu and Yoda, were greater still as Masters of the Order. Obi-Wan remembered his youngling days, awed by such titles and bowing unnecessarily to anyone introduced with _Master_ and _Council_ in the same breath. In time it turned to the ultimate reverence reserved for the most senior members holding the most honored titles. He knew even now it marked their dedication and wisdom far superior to anything he could ever even hope to achieve. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi, in the grey cast of a diffused Jedi Council chamber, bowed his head. For the first time since his capture on Geonosis, some tension eased from his shoulders. They did not bring him here to chastise. He felt their probing as interest, begging for the necessity that he share these burdens as all in the Order are welcome to. Camaraderie and companionship, guide them, not his own self induced and self pitying isolation. 

“I know it is wrong to feel so afraid but I have been unable to cast it aside. The future and the Force feel too uncertain.” He recalled standing in this room ten years before, watching the Masters discuss the future’s uncertainty in a not dissimilar context. Years ago Obi-Wan’s anxieties stemmed from the introduction of a strange desert boy, full of emotions and passion. Now he mourned the grief he brought to that same being, a boy turned into a man, but one now left broken. 

“Your fault, these things are not.” Yoda asserted, something like impatience coloring that so frequently temperamental voice. Obi-Wan often regarded it affectionately, the honest tell of Yoda’s genuine nature in his words. Anakin often called it annoying. 

“But these things… this new and developing state of our Republic, they will continue regardless of our desires.” Mace Windu nodded. He cast a look to his fellow Master of the Order. Obi-Wan sensed something shared between them, but figuring it out amongst their shielding and more complex signatures escaped him. “You well know the purpose of the Jedi, Obi-Wan. Time and again you have proven yourself not only a capable warrior but a skilled negotiator, a diplomat and mediator on our behalf. And more impressively, you mentored an exceptional, if difficult, student. In your time as a Knight you have done more than some Jedi do in their entire lifetime.”

Obi-Wan’s brows knit together. The praise he felt was too much, and too unexpected— it was not their way to compare accomplishments under any circumstances. But to flat out deny Master Windu would be disrespectful, and it would sound too much like how a certain needy Padawan fished for compliments. His mouth opened and shut once before he found his words. Today they often failed him— though really, time eluded him. Perhaps a week passed since he last controlled his tongue or his thoughts. He could no longer tell. 

“Masters, while I appreciate your concern, I do plan to meditate and work through my own fears when I am able. I only wished—“

“To wait for your Padawan. This we know. Fine, Padawan Skywalker will be.” That title sounded so formal, almost a dismissal out of Yoda’s wrinkled mouth. Obi-Wan’s worries only grew. How could he promise such a thing? Yoda was there, Yoda saved them, he knew well enough the pain Anakin went through and how it could not be dulled by a healing trance and a mechno-arm. This marked only the beginning of even further troubles. 

Yoda frowned too. “Tired, you are. Shielding, you are not.” He felt his face color; brief regret and guilt chilled him. “But true, a beginning this is. More trouble for us all. Hmmmm. And for you, hmmm? What see you for yourself, Obi-Wan?”

The youngest’s eyes widened. It was the type of question aimed at crèche children in need of mindfully probing their own feelings for the first time, discovering the Force and the beginnings of their emotional range. Those lessons would turn in time to emotional control, the development of peace in meditation, serenity, calm. Not even Qui-Gon walked him through such a primary exercise as assessing what the Force told him of his own future. By his Padawan years he grew out of such mundane things. And now Yoda asked this of him as though no time passed since his days as a youngling, flashing a training saber to deflect the nearly harmless blaster bolts of a training droid. How much and how little changed— he still deflected blaster bolts, but from droids firing to kill, and no longer did the Force feel simple and comforting around him. 

Obi-Wan spared no time investigating the truth right here before the two Masters. Instead he answered humbly what he expected would greet him if he reached out and met those waves of rippling Force. “I see the same I always have, Masters.” From many Jedi, such would sound a promising answer. From Anakin, surely it would speak of his grand destiny as the Chosen One. But for as long as he remembered, Obi-Wan found one answer and allowed himself no remorse for it. If it was the will of the Force, he could not question it. To challenge such a certainty would be to embrace darkness. 

_Infinite sadness._

So the Force told him every time he asked. Not in such precise words, but pain, intolerably tremendous pain, that never left him. The ideas of darkness and all things he knew and cared for slipping away, submerged in inky uncertainty and demise. 

Yoda hummed again, a ponderous and almost disbelieving noise. The gimer stick twisted under the ministrations of his taloned hands. Obi-Wan still stood stationary, his own palms going clammy with anticipation and unnerving discomfort. The anaesthesia in his arm began to wear off, and once more the wound throbbed. The bacta did some to soothe it, but it also made his bicep feel swollen and weighty, a self conscious padding not allowing him to forget its presence. 

“See this, I do not. Regardless, serve the Order willingly you do. For us and for yourself you, much greatness there is. Commend you, we do.” Finally, Obi-Wan felt this conversation steered towards a destination. They wanted something of him. A task or information. And Force sake anything to drive from his mind the pestering thoughts of guilt and worthlessness. Anything to distract him from his new reality, he would accept. After all, when had he ever told the Council no?

Master Windu leaned forwards. His fingers still steepled, they pointed fixedly at Obi-Wan as if a glowing beam might flare from the elongation of his middle fingers and shine a spotlight in the chamber’s center. No such theatrics came, though Obi-Wan’s eyes caught the shift towards sincerity in both of them. He almost begged them to assign him something, _anything_ , and let him go. He would say yes so long as they let him return to his Padawan. 

“We wish to know, Obi-Wan, your willingness to accept the responsibilities the changes to our galaxy will bring. Change will impact everyone, everywhere, not just here in the Order. But we wish to know—“

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan shifted on his feet. The spare saber lent to him on Geonosis clanked against his hip. It reminded him of his failures. _This weapon is your life_ echoed, always in the rumbling bass of his old Master. “I’m not quite sure what you’re asking of me.”

Master Yoda’s eyes drooped, admitting to a weariness he rarely showed. In his seat he made some attempt to straighten up, but with his small form and old age, it did very little. Obi-Wan feared if he did not so tightly hold that stick with both hands, then either or both would weakly tremble. Geonosis exhausted the best of them, their Grand Master rendered feeble by a confrontation with his former Padawan turned Sith— an emotional toll almost worse than the physical one. 

Impassioned, Yoda smacked his stick on the ground. His eyes set determinedly on Obi-Wan’s, and even more anchoring than his gaze was his gale force presence. It enveloped the room, a power to infect the whole planet, perhaps the galaxy if the Grand Master so chose. “Devoted to the Order you are, yes? And troubling times we enter, yes?” Obi-Wan tried to stutter out his own responses, his burning inquiries but he was given no opportunity. “Then what we must, all Jedi will do!” 

His voice sounded only as strong as it ever did, wavering and thin, but honest and true. Master Yoda, old yet deceptively strong, and with so much Force hidden in his years. Obi-Wan revered him, but the eldest Jedi’s words revealed far less unshakeable confidence in his own power.

“Too old am I, to be the last hope of the Jedi.”

In his chair, perfectly constructed for his unassuming form, Master Yoda sank, defeated. He did not hum, did not once more thwap his stick, and neither did Obi-Wan stammer for words clearly lost to him. 

Like the darkness, quiet filled the chamber. Obi-Wan watched enough to see Yoda breathe, labored breaths that shook a body so small even in his layers of robes. His hunched shoulders rose and fell with tremendous exertion. It was much the same haggard transformation that met Obi-Wan in his bleary moments of spying Yoda after fighting Dooku, as he and all other Jedi loaded back onto transports bound for Coruscant, aided by their new yet loyal men, future uncertain and safety no longer guaranteed. 

Mace Windu’s hands fell into his lap. He bowed his head, a motion which Obi-Wan slowly reciprocated. Master Yoda did not speak again, or even show any recognition. Some internal ponderings occupied him. Something to make his already lined face crease harsher with worries beyond even his years, beyond anyone in the galaxy’s purview. These were dark and uncharted times. 

“Thank you for your time, Obi-Wan.” The Korun Master acknowledged. “We and the rest of Council have much to discuss and we do not wish to keep you. Though it may be hard, try not to think of the fate of the galaxy for now. Think of your own spirit. Meditate, rest, commune with the Force and do what you can. And please, go see your Padawan. My sympathies go to him, though I know they do nothing. Your guidance will though.” Obi-Wan felt once more that these so softly spoken compliments hinted at some agenda of the two Masters. Yet if they did not reveal it then it was not his place to nose in. “We— the whole Council, will wish to speak with you again soon. Do not worry yourself in anticipation. The time will come and we have great faith in our next meeting.” But still, he knew they meant it in saying _soon._

Obi-Wan nodded, then bowed again in a final departure. “I will try to take that advice, and I fear Master Che will be my doom if I do not.” He managed a wry smile at his own expense and with relief, watched humor lighten both his elders in turn. “May the Force be with you, Masters.”

Through the window shades, the light began to pour in slotted streams, streaking the room both grey and gold. Obi-Wan turned his back to such an awesome display, and swore that as the Council doors shut, Master Windu grimly echoed, “May the Force be with us all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Anakin actually gets to be in this chapter!  
> Thank you to everyone who enjoyed the first chapter! I’m really excited to write this story and it’s totally receiving all of my attention right now  
> And as of right now this is set up to be about 12 chapters and 80k words so :)

Returned to Anakin’s side, he felt the first warm trickles of a slowly returning and achingly familiar presence. Oh how he missed it, longed for it over any distance, but an absence such as this he’d never felt before. Always, no matter what, some shadow of Anakin remained imprinted in his mind and in his own signature. An aspect of his training bond, he told himself, though he never recalled such a lingering feeling between himself and Qui-Gon. But since Geonosis, Anakin disappeared entirely, unreadable in the Force as if all life inside him coiled up in shock. The healing trance and continued unconsciousness did nothing to help Obi-Wan rediscover that which he lost, that which was severed from him as physical and drastic as Anakin’s right arm. 

Anakin lay on the bed, blankets neatly pulled up and tucked into his sides so his arms freely rested atop. He looked at peace, his breathing even. Obi-Wan watched the rhythm of his chest, the only confirmation of life at the first sight of him. Other than the obvious, Anakin would be left with no physical scars or wounds to mark their capture and chaos by Count Dooku. His face smoothed out of it’s pained grimace at some point between transport and now, and that at least relieved Obi-Wan. He abhorred the sight of Anakin’s suffering frozen there and unfixable. A firm crease in his brows, a face that fell slack with disgust and anger, not tranquility. Obi-Wan saw that same face crinkled in anguish too often already, especially in moments where his Padawan deserved rest and recovery but for some Force forsaken reason the galaxy determined otherwise and Anakin constantly faced old haunts behind his eyelids. His dreams were only ever nightmares. The Force hounded him relentlessly— visions and premonitions, vague and taunting. 

Obi-Wan could do nothing to wipe them away or chase off the havoc they wrought. He could only do his best to comfort and soothe, even when Anakin shoved him away and shut down. 

Obi-Wan slumped in a chair. He wanted to stand at the ready, but once again Vokara Che set an ultimatum: “Either sit and rest with him or leave my Halls.” She proved quite keen to kick him out, so he reluctantly sought a chair. It was far more comfortable than it originally appeared— or he was just that exhausted. His body seemed to melt into it, training-honed muscles turned to mush. Gelatinous, he slouched back, arms crossed and clasped across his midsection and legs splayed carelessly. The image of Jedi decorum abandoned him entirely. He didn’t care. There was no one to see it. Besides, he could always cite his aches as the cause. That or point to any of the true victims of his actions, the proof of his burdens that yanked his limbs into a wild display of world weary exhaustion. 

His eyes drifted many times as he waited. He felt awake, told himself he could shake off slumber no matter what. But his blinks grew longer so a minute might pass where his eyes stayed shut. Then that one minute turned to two, and so ticked on until he jerked his head straight again. Some minutes felt like seconds and some seconds like minutes— time warped around him. His body fought him for respite but his mind, racing and tumultuous, singled in on one fixed purpose. It found the cause easier than his muscles, for his mind sparked with each sign of a returning Force connection. His limbs, too exhausted to rouse under the same stimulation, cared not for the Force. But his mind and soul clung to the golden tendrils of Anakin’s return. 

The first physical sign came as a twitch of a thumb. The flesh hand tensed like it received an electric signal. Perhaps it did. Perhaps the return of feeling and consciousness to Anakin’s body was as much a livewire as his presence in the Force, or as energetic as his volatile personality. Sharp and potent, twinkling flames of power. The hand relaxed and finally Obi-Wan’s eyes remained open unfailingly. His cause came to fruition. 

A flutter of eyelids, then a stirring of his head much like trying to resurface from underwater. A reaching, half awake motion that proved he clawed his way back to reality. Then a shuddering breath— dry and clean, not the garbled and pained cries that last wrought his voice ragged and streaky. He sounded healthy. He sounded alright. 

Anakin’s chin tilted up, still gasping and drowning but his lungs visibly shook and filled and emptied and then swelled up again. A body in perfect - if forced - function, kickstarting itself with the same sputtering efficiency as the ships and machines Anakin adored. The rest of him remained unmoving as breathing regulated into deep inhales and exhales, controlled and even. Obi-Wan dared not move or make a sound. He felt any interruption would make Anakin shut off again, like this was only a dream and his motions would shatter it apart. 

But a dream it was not, and finally, as though waking from a perfectly normal rest, Anakin opened his eyes. Startlingly wet and blue— oh how Obi-Wan missed the sight of them. He blinked once, then twice, eyes adjusting to the soft, diffused light of the healing room. Where a similar gloss rendered the Council chamber unnerving to Obi-Wan, this room’s grey yellow haze soothed. It beckoned Anakin into wakefulness with the Force’s own guiding and gentle caresses. 

“Obi-Wan.” When he spoke, the Force erupted with the zenith of his emotion. Unshielded, unorganized, his thoughts and feelings jumbled into beams with power and light like staring into binary suns. Desperation clawed up, confusion and happiness too, all more honest and open than should have been sent shooting across their bond. Obi-Wan feebly jerked at the assault to mind and spirit. But Anakin’s voice nearly whispered, pitched low and slightly rough. 

“Don’t speak, Padawan.” Obi-Wan advised. Tears pricked at his eyes and he could not suppress the subtle, relieved smile pulling at his lips. He did not distrust Master Che when she promised Anakin would wake, but of course he feared the worst. He feared it because the Force no longer showed him that certain miseries were impossible or avoidable. Anakin was as mortal and fallible as anyone, Chosen One or not. Finally collecting his limbs, Obi-Wan leaned forward and found Anakin’s arm. He gave it a squeeze and sent back through their bond all the sympathy and promises he mustered. Anakin’s brows drew together but Obi-Wan nodded, “Rest Anakin, save your words. You’ve been through enough.”

Anakin looked lost. His voice gained some stronger quality as he huffed, “You look horrible, Master. I’m not the one who needs to rest.”

“Don’t you start on that too.” His lip quirked feebly. The banter felt half genuine. He missed it, mourned it, longed for more. He longed to swirl their lightsabers and dance around one another in their sparring and their perfectly coordinated attacks. He wanted the sensation of being one with Anakin, mind and body. Anakin’s quip neared that aching familiarity, but Obi-Wan only saw the damage his own helplessness wrought. 

Anakin frowned for different reasons, spurned on by a different unhappiness. Obi-Wan watched and felt it, pondering and discovery snapped tightly at the threads in the Force. Eyes darting, Anakin’s tongue found the words for his memories, like he only now registered the pain and predicament of his body. Or perhaps not his body— Anakin’s eyes pricked with hot tears, they trailed down his cheeks. He seemed to choke on them. 

“My mother—“ Obi-Wan’s concern marred his face. Tidal grief hit him, and Anakin it’s source. It hit him again and again, shattering waves of grief becoming rage. His Padawan yanked his arm from Obi-Wan’s loose grip. “My mother is dead… and it’s  _ your fault _ .”

“ _ Anakin— _ “

A stabbing jolt in the force prevented the Jedi from saying more. Loss and pain and sadness, but rolled up into an inky darkness, slick and vile. It writhed along their bond, turning the little substance in Obi-Wan’s gut to churning bile. Fury shone black in Anakin’s eyes, daring him to defend himself, to say something. “No,” he breathed, not fully recoiling to his own body and chair. Still he reached out, desperate to find a rock of safety in Anakin’s quickly besieged harbor. “Anakin, no, I—“

“She would be alive!” Obi-Wan startled with the stripped-bare pain cracking his Padawan’s voice. He recalled the scream in agony before Anakin lost consciousness on Geonosis; it echoed his own pain and grief so many years before, on Naboo. The loss that plagued them both; Obi-Wan’s old wound, poorly and forcibly stitched over by time and necessity but Anakin’s just ripped into being, torn further moment by moment. 

He also recollected Master Che’s warning to send him off if he did any damage to Anakin’s emotions. Sending over pleading signals, he met only durasteel walls in the Force. 

“Leave me alone! Get away! She would be alive if you believed me! _ I told you _ — my dreams and if you  _ trusted _ me— She’d be alive and I could have saved her!” Gasping breaths shuddered Anakin’s words; his lips quaked, wet with tears and spit.

Obi-Wan rushed his poor defense, still desperately searching for the man he knew in all this chaos. His emotions pounded, unceasing and too much. They made his head throb like a body thrown out of a ship and straight into hyperspace. Blurring thoughts and stars and hate and grief, stretched thin and too bright in the confines of his mind. 

Pained, pitiful, he hushed “I didn’t know, Anakin. Your dreams— you never dreamt she  _ died _ . If you told me—“ The great Negotiator, the Order’s infallible man rendered speechless. No words did his sincerest grief justice. As if he could possibly blame himself even more for Anakin’s hurt. Yes it was his fault, yes Anakin should draw away and shut him out, condemn him and spit in his face. It all was true. 

“I tried, you never—“ Anakin’s voice broke. Face shattering, unfiltered rage lit up the ties between them. Obi-Wan felt it repelling his body, ensuring he kept his distance and he knew, for all the power of his emotions and all the control he tried to teach his young Padawan, Anakin would never intend to push him away like this. He was losing himself, sinking into darkness. It morphed into something worse.  _ Desire, death, intent. _

Obi-Wan felt it: a vice grip. Pressure rising up from inside himself, beneath his tunics and even beneath his skin— first punching at his chest then traveling the expanse to squeeze phantom fingers at the base of his throat. He coughed wetly, seizing, “ _ Anakin _ —“

He watched his Padawan’s eyes shadow with unapologetic passion. If this was his decision, Obi-Wan resigned to it— call it recompense for Geonosis, for the loss of so many, for single-handedly springing the trap that would plunge the galaxy into ruin.  _ His fault _ . 

His fault Qui-Gon died, for not being fast enough, good enough to stop the Zabrak Sith earlier, his fault for being a hindrance and an undesirable, insubordinate Padawan. His fault Anakin struggled in the Force when a better Master would see him shining brilliantly in pure light energy, unclouded by emotions and attachment. His fault for failing to detect darkness, the developing clone and droid armies, the trap Count Dooku set— the trap to lure him in and the other one the strike down his Padawan and corner Master Yoda. His fault too for not leading Anakin, so yes, his fault that somewhere far away, Shmi Skywalker died. 

Cloying spit surged up in his throat, he tried weakly “I never intended— I’m so  _ sorry _ , Anakin.”

But he sensed his words fall on deaf ears, even as in a whoosh the pressure withdrew. All at once the whirlwind of Anakin’s hate evaporated, leaving Obi-Wan gasping. He dropped to his knees and his body shuddered with the impact. Again, his head ached. Every vein and muscle fiber screamed in protest, his neck left brutalized and sore. He felt very near retching, but his stomach sat empty, not even willing to force bile up and out of him, though the acid taste of it burned in his mouth anyway. 

Looking up, his eyes glistened with tears unshed. They did not even arrive out of his own pity and sadness, but a simple reaction to his physical pain. For the emotional toil he allowed himself no such indulgent concession as tears. His problems meant little. Instead, he softened for the sight of Anakin. Anakin’s storm died not in sudden realization or compassion for the horrors he prepared to inflict on his own Master. He did not cease to avoid killing old Kenobi. 

He stopped because he finally caught the glinting sight of his body. Subtly reflecting the room’s meager lights, the mechno-arm gleamed gold. Beautiful and simple, it looked much the same as the appendage it replaced, it’s proportionality and curves perfectly emulated muscle and bone that no longer existed. If covered in synth skin, there might be no telling at all. Anakin stared, face blank, signature empty. Silence surrounded them and Obi-Wan did not break it for he did not have the right. Once more he stood, regaining composure and breathing and level-headedness in the Force. Everything hinged on Anakin. Obi-Wan expected a return of the gale force, expected a new surge of rage for the one responsible, for creating  _ another _ loss that could not ever be made right. 

Instead, Anakin breathed “ _ Oh.” _ His fingers flexed, flesh hand unmoving as he watched the slow motions of the new one. For each shift, it flowed in some new way, clacking minutely into a fist. Obi-Wan almost believed there should be some noise to it, a faint whirring or metallic hum to accompany each flick and clench. But just like flesh, it produced no sound. 

The whole prosthetic matched, all colored in the same gold metal alloy, no difference between parts from fingertip to joint. Where it fused near Anakin’s elbow, a thicker band striped across to hide a stretch of the scarred skin. Still, some charred red marks crept up, dancing like flames over once smooth skin. Red and gold. Hot, raw flesh and cold, impersonal metal. The fingers were perhaps a little thicker than Anakin’s real ones, but they flexed flawlessly at each knuckle, bent and tensed in a performance of perfectly coordinated and microscopically aligned joints and pivots and such. The smooth palm dexterously adjusted for the motions of the thumb; just below it, at the wrist, it rolled and rippled as though controlled by veins and pumping blood. Across that palm, lines even curved. Overlapped plating emulated the wrinkles and calluses of human nature and activity showing it’s simple wear and tear. They appeared again on the bend of each knuckle though the rest of the back of his hand shone in one smooth plate. Truly, it marked a work of master craftsmanship, even constructed and fitted in such a hurry as the Healers operated under. Unlike certain clunky droid parts, it moved seamlessly and naturally. Spurring out from the inner flexor of the wrist, two divots raised up and melted back into smooth lines as they approached the elbow. They mimicked the tugging of veins, and another portion of metal and synth nerves shifted with the minuscule flexing of the smallest finger. 

So busy studying the hand and learning it as if his own - and in a way it was, if he and Anakin were to continue as two halves of the same vessel - Obi-Wan did not notice his Padawan’s seeping emotions until his shoulders wracked with a choked sob. Inaudible at first, he heaved with a second cry, then finally tears dripped from his eyes to the straight linens of the bed. They seeped into darkening tan puddles. Anakin stopped flexing the hand and as if unintentionally; his body curled in on itself, but the arm hung uninvited. Foreign and unreal, it shocked him. Not even disgust flavored his upset. Just shock and hurt. All the anger left him. 

“Oh Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighed. Regardless of the continued ache in his head and in his throat, he dropped to the bed. He sat as close as he could, throwing abandon to the decent idea of not crowding the younger man. Obi-Wan scooped him into his arms, tucked Anakin’s head under his own and provided the only comfort he could. All the fight drained out. Apology and grief swam between them, unspoken and half-formed ideas. Neither dared say anything as the tears continued. 

Anakin cried for his mother, for the idea of family lost to him entirely, unrecoverable. He cried too for any idea of a safe future, lost as well. It all flooded back to him— Padmé, Geonosis, Dooku. Obi-Wan caught only waves and hints of it. Some things hid away, details of the retreat to Naboo and moments with Senator Amidala before they reunited in the arena. Those snippets remained Anakin’s alone, whatever they were, and into them Obi-Wan refused to pry. But he felt hints of boyish anxiety, uncertainty and sparkling hope. Again, they were not his to pry into, and he glossed over them almost uninterested. Only almost, for he did absently fear what they spelled out for Anakin. He could entertain no such romance, and really not much more than a particularly close friendship with the Senator from Naboo. Yet he lost so much already, and Obi-Wan feared denying him such a simple, natural feeling as love might ruin him. 

Love. A complicated emotion too. Anakin felt it bitterly in the loss of his mother and Obi-Wan returned it best as he was able. To himself he called it compassion, devotion, and trust. The appropriate amount of affection and respect for his Padawan. Nothing more. At least Anakin did not fight what he offered, he did not jerk back and yell for Obi-Wan not to treat him like a child; he did not recoil from the saber-calloused fingers smoothing and soothing through the golden cropped curls of his hair, nor from Obi-Wan’s low and humming assurance that “I have you, Anakin.”

He wanted to say  _ All will be well _ , or  _ You’re safe now _ . But it felt foolish to whisper such uncertain things, so he swallowed all additional unknowns and only offered what he could. “I have you.” Held securely in his arms, this could not be argued. Anakin’s left arm clung to his outer tunic, fisted tightly into the folds of coarse weave and guaranteed Obi-Wan’s second assurance stayed true. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. Even as the flood of Anakin’s hot tears dampened the collar of his clothing, even as desperate breaths came out in shuddered, wracking puffs on his neck, Obi-Wan swore not to leave him again. It stank of attachment. But for at least this moment, he selfishly could not care. 

Let Anakin cry, because for this small moment in time and space, separated from the rest of the Order, the rest of the galaxy too, it perhaps was their last chance to do so. The last semblance of something normal. Their bond, these tears and this sorrowful embrace were their own and no one else’s, and there could be no such guarantee their lives could be their own ever again. 

Speaking into the moistened undertunic at the base of Obi-Wan’s neck, Anakin shakily whimpered “You left.” Clearly, he did not intend for it to sound so weak, but Obi-Wan did not judge him for it. His thumb found Anakin’s braid and ran along beside it, making him shiver at the sensation brushed behind his ear. 

“I haven’t left.” He countered with no bite to his voice. Even his mild confusion refused to bubble up. He desired nothing interrupt them, not even Anakin’s aimless thoughts. 

But surer now, Anakin repeated, “You left.” He collected himself with a hearty sniffle before sitting up. Obi-Wan mourned their closeness but at last found it within himself to respect Anakin’s desire for physical independence. Besides, confrontation with the tired and flushed appearance of his Padawan reminded him Anakin was a boy needing taking care of no longer. Still bright eyed and reckless, yes, but a boy grown into a young man. Now those same fathomless cerulean irises both glistened with tears and focused on his Master’s face, searching for an answer not visible on the surface. “While I was here, you left. You went to Council.” 

Obi-Wan frowned, bewildered. “Anakin, you’ve been unconscious since Geonosis and Master Che herself induced your healing. How could you possibly have felt my absence?” 

Anakin met his look with a sheepish curl to his lips. His eyes darted and the probing concern on his face turned to soft amusement. “I didn’t. You’re thinking about something Master Yoda said, I just can’t figure out what it is.”

“Then you shouldn’t be rifling through my thoughts like that,” Obi-Wan admonished on impulse, no heat behind his words. 

Anakin groaned a typical, petulant “Master!” Before pulling away and flopping against his bed. The two standard issue pillows cushioned his theatrics. Once more, Obi-Wan mourned the tiny separation, but the sight of Anakin acting much more like his usual self made up for it. “I only know it has you worried,” Anakin stated, crossing his left arm to grip his right shoulder. It came across an awkward and self conscious movement, like he wanted to cross both arms but did not want to draw attention to the golden appendage. So of course it stood out starkly against the white and beige sheets. 

Unable to find fault in such an assessment, Obi-Wan nodded. He clasped his hands between his legs, one boot firmly on the ground and the other propped on his knee. Half on the bed, half off. Half preparing for the future, half fearing it. 

But of course, that was indulgent and unwise— fear and darkness and all those emotions in between. 

“I did meet with Master Yoda and Master Windu,” he admitted. His thumb rolled over an oddly woven thread in the seam of his pants. Scraping the detail with his nail, he distracted himself. Of course Anakin felt his worry even when he tried to provide comfort. “Master Windu sent along his sympathies.”

Anakin scoffed. Obi-Wan glanced at him but found his Padawan’s eyes glued to his once more slowly moving gold fingers. Clearly, it would take getting used to not just the visuals but those minute tactile sensations as well. “Those won’t do me much good.” Anakin spoke bitterly, as if  _ Mace Windu _ carried the blame for the incident, as if he and not Count Dooku wielded a red lightsaber and slashed mercilessly through flesh and sinew and bone. 

“Anakin—“ Obi-Wan admonished breathlessly. He shook his head. What more comfort did  _ he _ provide than the Korun Master’s carried along condolences? Kind words, a shoulder to cry on, and tremendous guilt, no matter who they came from would do nothing for Anakin’s future. “I do wish you would learn to respect the Council.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Tensing his shoulders, Anakin breathed in deeply and let it all out in an exasperated huff. His eyes flicked to Obi-Wan’s patient gaze, pleading with childish stubbornness. “And I  _ do… _ or I try to. And don’t you dare quote Master Yoda about  _ trying _ ! I know that one too.” Obi-Wan shut his mouth around the old mantra, indeed ready on his tongue,  _ do or do not, there is no try.  _ He smiled and shook his head fondly. 

“Besides, I’ll respect them a lot more when they wise up and finally grant you the rank of Master-“

“ _ Anakin _ “

“I mean it! And a seat on Council too!” Obi-Wan would not hear it, though he knew Anakin meant well. Much like his hesitations and surprise to Master Windu’s praise, this hope for his future conflicted with the tenets of Jedi humility. What the Force willed for him mattered far more than his own desires. Besides, he wasn’t eager to assume a Mastership or Council seat amidst the current climate. 

Obi-Wan sucked on the inside of his cheek, casting his eyes instead to his still cut and worn hands. Time would heal them and leave not a scar behind. And even the larger wounds to arm and thigh as well as the emotional toll would, as days stretched into weeks and then months, fade all the same. Time heals all wounds, they say. Clearly not all, Obi-Wan reminded himself without even needing to see Anakin’s living proof of the exceptions. Anakin embodied the exception to too many things already, and now came this grave injury and all because Obi-Wan didn’t do enough to protect him. Sure, he yelled out, ordered Anakin to not rush in recklessly, but as his Master— no, as his  _ friend _ he should have done more. He felt the pervasive darkness in the Force as Dooku struck true, and only thanked that though maimed, Anakin lived. For selfish reasons, he knew not if he could bear it. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Anakin’s voice meekly travelled the growing distance between them. He reached out, tried to poke Obi-Wan’s shoulder in a small invitation— a childish gesture from their early days, when young Anakin unsurely prodded at his Master’s side, begging questions and attention. Now the memories fell flat, for out of habit, Anakin lifted his right arm. He did not think of the abnormality until he watched his own gold index press into the folds of Obi-Wan’s tan tunic. 

He had yet to learn the prosthetics adjustments and limitations and though he did push harder than he realized, that was not why Obi-Wan jerked away from it. The older Jedi’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes narrowed in on Anakin, darkened with something shocked and new and vague. His Padawan struggled to discern it, and within himself, so did Obi-Wan. 

“I’m sorry-“ Anakin began to impulsively apologize, withdrawing his hand as though he shocked his Master with Sith electricity. 

“It isn’t you,” Obi-Wan quickly defended. Reaching for the new hand, he squeezed it to reassure Anakin he meant those words. It did indeed feel colder, lacking all the pulsing blood and flesh he once knew. But he could not draw back again, for Anakin’s sake. It only took getting used to. His fingers, rough skin, brushed over the detailed plating of the palm, smooth gold metal. Even the lines he could see he hardly felt. Anakin’s mechno-fingers twitched, shivering under the barest touches. He wondered how such a hand, without the calloused aid of flesh, would once again hold a lightsaber. 

Pulling his hand away gently, Anakin formed a fist and let the limb drop once more to his stomach. “It’s good. It’s— it sort of reminds me of Threepio, but it’s way better than anything I ever gave him.” Silently, Obi-Wan agreed that the color and functional style closely resembled Anakin’s old protocol droid, retrieved from Tatooine during his and Padmé’s little excursion. Anakin shrugged, “But I’ll still have to make some improvements.”

Now it was Obi-Wan’s turn to scoff. “The best prosthetic the Order and likely the whole galaxy could provide and you think  _ you _ can do better?” Once more he looked at it, mentally appraising the technical skill it displayed, a quick and humble expertise. The arm fit its functions flawlessly, so of course Anakin had some complaints to find. 

“I know I can.” He grinned. Of all the things Anakin was, he wasn’t a liar. His confidence flowed from genuine belief in his talents and capabilities, and he did know far more of droids and machines than the average person— and certainly more than Obi-Wan. Infectiously, his sureness overtook his face, eyes crinkling and mouth stretched wide. If it weren’t so annoyingly endearing, Obi-Wan could allow himself to almost hate this moment. And yes,  _ hate _ . Far more than a genuine dislike, dread settled deep in the pit of his stomach and spread like lava through every part of him— a slow, hot, roiling feeling. Anakin deserved more than this, more than sick bed jokes to pretend the hurt and loss were less than unbearable. He deserved more than a Master who let him down time and again by never being fit for the role in the first place. 

No matter how he tried, he could not shake himself from those thoughts. Master Windu was right, he needed time to meditate, time to rest. After Geonosis, surely they would grant him a week at least of leave without missions or reports. Just time for himself again. He could spend it in the lush Meditation Gardens, sitting under a waterfall and feeling the ebb and flow of Force connection that he so missed these past days. Mundane reality surrounded him and blotted out the lighter aspects— the luminous and higher calling of the Jedi. 

“Did the Council really say something that troubling?” Anakin asked and Obi-Wan once more realized how his internalizations overcame him. 

“No,” he sighed, then shook his head. “Or, I can’t say really. Master Windu complimented me but Master Yoda said something very odd.”

“It couldn’t have been weirder than the stuff he usually says.” Anakin appeared much less interested in the details of Obi-Wan’s plight, and he supposed that was fair. It was all probably nothing anyway. His mind stretched thin after days of worry and travel and so much darkness. Everything felt supremely important yet focusing on any one thing in his head proved impossible. A chaotic whirlwind, thoughts expanded and blurred like stars through a viewport while jumping to hyperspace, each one undefinable and present more as a vague idea than separate, individual things of substance. 

Obi-Wan turned so both his feet fell flat on the floor again. “Yes, I suppose that’s all it was.” An easy dismissal: just Master Yoda being the same old, cryptic messenger he always was. Yet what a strange message. 

_ Too old am I to be the last hope of the Jedi _ . 

For the ancient Order’s Grand Master, it came across surprisingly defeatist. This nasty, dreadful feeling familiarized itself with Obi-Wan’s spirit all too eagerly.

“I am just tired,” he admitted, giving Anakin a wry smile. “Please, do not mind my thoughts, I should do a better job at shielding them.” Their bond, since it’s conception, proved unnaturally strong. At many times, it saved them both, made missions easier, made training easier. But now Obi-Wan knew it widened and poured onto Anakin burdens that were not his to carry. Fears and uncertainties— un-Jedi-like and unrestrained emotions. 

“Master, don’t shut me out.” Anakin’s voice dipped with conviction but he followed it with a small sniffle. Still glazed from tears and loss, his eyes both red and determined followed the sad slope of Obi-Wan’s shoulders, a defeated slouch. “I’m not a child.”

“I know that,”

“Then don’t treat me like one!” 

Obi-Wan jerked as he stood up, arms crossed below his chest. His footsteps sounded empty and hollow on the floor though the weight of himself never felt heavier. The constant admonishment “ _ Anakin. _ ” Breathed from his lips without a thought. Again he felt a glimmer of anger from his Padawan and knew it revealed only the surface of plunging emotional intensity. 

Neither of them spoke. Obi-Wan’s boot-padded steps sounded out each passing beat with painful precision. Turning on his heel, he laid his back to the wall. His shoulders hurt from the pressure. Once more he faced Anakin laying in his bed, the fury on his face only matched by Obi-Wan’s exhaustion. 

“Anakin,” he repeated, less exasperated now. “There are things you do not understand because there are things  _ I  _ do not understand.” A simple look shut Anakin’s mouth from interrupting with more juvenile protestations. “So I do not wish to share with you things that… not even Master Yoda can make sense of, apparently.” Suppressing a groan, he shifted and his spine rubbed against the wall in a way that sent pain shooting through him. 

The hurt died out of Anakin’s face but his flesh fist clenched with poorly concealed stubbornness. “Don’t ask me not to care. Anything but that.”

Of course he did such a bad job of training Anakin out of attachments. No, despite his efforts he nurtured that flaw in his Padawan, led him further from perfection in the Jedi Code with each endearing and indulgent allowance. All Anakin’s rage and grief bottled up for his mother, and Obi-Wan knew the tears and suffocation were not the last of it. He knew as well how Anakin’s infatuation with Padmé Amidala blossomed since their childhood meeting into something that could never be reciprocated. Or at least it could be, but even if both fell madly in love with one another, nothing more could come of it. Something that could never be acted on regardless of mutual or powerful feelings. 

Obi-Wan set him up for that. His fault that Anakin loved so tremendously and never found decent enough solace in the Force to consider peace, knowledge, serenity, and harmony proper substitutes for the very human and very natural emotional experiences. 

“You’re not alone, Obi-Wan.” Following that surged a wave of Anakin’s poorly withheld chastisements of his own. Obi-Wan shook his head, hearing his own Padawan calling him a stubborn idiot behind unshielded thoughts. “ _ And _ ,” Anakin’s expression rivaled Master Che, “you’re tired and hurt.” Surely Obi-Wan’s tight grimace and visible wounds hid that fact superbly. “Just rest, Obi-Wan.”

Twice now, Anakin used his name. So often he said  _ Master _ , somehow turning the title into more than it should have been. Because Force knew Anakin often withheld the same respect and “forgot” the title as it applied to Mace Windu and Yoda all too frequently to be an accident. But for Obi-Wan, he never forgot it, and perhaps even overused it. So now, his name was a pleading concession, begging “ _ see me as an equal, Obi-Wan, and not a child, not as your Padawan, but as a friend.” _

“I will need to return to the Council,” Obi-Wan sighed, but slumped back into the chair at Anakin’s bedside. His body fought him, railed against his stubborn determination to keep pushing himself. Getting captured, chained up in an arena, attacked and then knocked to the ground defeated by a Sith should have taught him something of standing down by now. Losing so many Jedi, almost losing his Padawan, almost losing all hope entirely should have shocked his sense into him. 

Force sake, even before that, so many missions with Qui-Gon, so many admonishments from Council, so many sights across the galaxy should have taught him restraint. He knew from the beginning a cloying feeling that began in Dex’s diner and followed him until the whole plot unfolded. The dart, Kamino, the clones, the bounty hunter, and inevitably Geonosis. Death, misery, and the brink of war. He should have seen it, should have felt it. All he wanted he could claim the now familiar excuse, blame the darkness seeping in and clouding the Force. Sure it was true— sure, since Darth Maul on Naboo, the Force reeked with a malice undeniably belonging to the Sith. It ebbed and flowed, clearing up for moments or months, providing false hope and clarity only to stitch back together and fog all future and premonition with obscuring black. As a Jedi with three decades of training, he felt it a poor excuse for his own ineptitude. 

Anakin frowned. He sank into his pillows and sheets, shoving them out of their neat, clinical folds. He moved like someone perfectly healed, though shadows of tiredness hung from his eyes. Clearly he ached less than Obi-Wan. More color rose in his cheeks, filled his lips; his visible skin didn’t bear the scratches and burns of a battle amidst blaster fire. The waxy, unsettling look of his frozen pain long since abated when Master’s Che’s healing pulled him from shock and floated him into a trance. Now, though he pouted, his signature in the Force sang with the ecstasy of revitalization. 

Obi-Wan propped one leg up on the bed, nudging Anakin’s knee. “But I suppose I can wait until the Council summons me again. After all, I have been advised to rest by… well by  _ everyone _ .” He admitted rather sheepishly, an unnerved chill running through him at the memory of Vokara’s intimidating assertions he needed to care for himself. 

“You do look like the worse end of a bantha,” Anakin snorted. 

Obi-Wan mused, “Perhaps,” as he sat back. His spine popped and stretched, all the way from his lower back up his neck. Individual vertebrae tried to find their place and muscles groaned their continued protests. Kark he did need to rest. “Though I’m not sure which end is meant to be the better one.”

His Padawan smiled then shook his head, refusing Obi-Wan the very enlightening answer of which was the better end. And he so looked forward to finding out. Instead, Anakin implored him expectantly, “So you’ll stay?”

“Only so I can shut my eyes for a moment. I’ll go as soon as Council calls.” He always did and always would. He followed Council diligently. Not very well during his own Padawan days, admittedly, but after, when he sought guidance and lost his Master and gained a learner all in one go, he did. Master Windu always lent him a patient ear. All of those older and wiser than him, whose footsteps he humbly followed. No comparison existed between their power and his. Afterall, his only duty was to rear the Chosen zone and it was a job for which he was horribly ill suited. But it was  _ his  _ task, his promise to Qui-Gon Jinn, and he could not fail in it. Therefore he required the Council, depended on them so closely for the past decade. He owed them everything, for they were the brightest and wisest in the Order and understood the will of the Force and the galaxy’s future in a manner he never would. Whatever they asked he would agree because in the end, they were right. It was not a matter of blind obedience, which was quite expressly deplored. It was simply a matter of acknowledgment and respect. Sometimes he floundered, felt lost in the greatness of the Force, and always his fellow Jedi were there to guide him, hand in hand and spirits in perfect communion. 

He pretended it wasn’t true, that he had an iota of the independence he saw in his own Padawan, even when he advised Anakin to listen instead of ignoring authority. He admired it, though worried it would only cause the boy more problems as he grew older and stronger and undoubtedly more stubborn. His attachments and his emotions would only worsen if his rebellious streak never subsided. 

Sat in his healing bed, refreshed and relaxed, Anakin looked nothing like the frustratingly passionate Padawan sure to turn Obi-Wan old before his time. He nodded, watched Obi-Wan close his weary eyes and softly said “Of course, Master.”


	3. Chapter 3

Early morning light shone golden through the Council spire’s great panoramic window. Slipstreams of Coruscant traffic blurred by in white and blue streaks, neat and orderly, yet soon to grow chaotic. Though the city planet never slept, now were the between hours, too early for the diurnal and too late for the nocturnal. A sleepy crawl of those returning to their homes or venturing to their work or pleasure and other pursuits of the day. Steady and constant, the world turned and life blossomed upon it. 

And in the spire of the High Jedi Council, almost every seat sat filled with the physical form of a warrior so esteemed, ranked highest among an already intimately select group. Of all the Force sensitives and followers of the Light in the galaxy, these were the most honored, the most revered. 

For all the light they followed, that surrounded them and stemmed from them in the Force, and for all the sun that poured in through their great surrounding display of transparisteel, darkness sat heavy and somber in their center. Also in the center stood Obi-Wan Kenobi, pulled from the bedside of his healing Padawan. 

Though really, his Padawan healed remarkably well and now the older Jedi looked worse for wear. A night spent on a medical center chair poorly replaced true relaxation. It provided little luxury or comfort. All it served better than his own bed in his own quarters was a fixed place at Anakin’s side. He told himself that made up for it but the lingering aches in his back and the crick in his neck screamed otherwise. 

“Obi-Wan,” Master Windu’s gentle voice broke the silence since his arrival. He nodded his head and in the middle of the floor’s round, rather floral patterns, Obi-Wan did the same. 

To himself, he felt relieved to stand once more attired in his usual robe, which he missed last he stood here, feeling exposed without the extra layer of brown fabric. 

“Master Windu, Council.” He greeted, nodding and eyes gazing in turn. For a moment, he lingered on the empty cushion of Master Trebor’s chair. One of the many lives lost on Geonosis, gunned down by the bounty hunter Jango Fett— one of the many now transcended to the Force. But a loss was still a loss, and Obi-Wan weighed with each name and spirit that left them. 

“You look…” Master Windu’s lips tightened in a disappointingly amused smirk, “Only marginally better than last we saw you.”

Obi-Wan ducked his head, knowing no answer could satisfy the Council. All would admit to an attachment that stood before them brazenly. 

“Not brought here to discuss your Padawan, are you,” Master Yoda saved him from answering but his face lined with a severity that sucked all humor from the room. “Yesterday we called you. Discussed your future, we did, yes?”

The rest of the Council sat expectantly. Obi-Wan swallowed before answering. “We did, Master Yoda.” He knew not what else to say. Once more he felt led, and that perhaps the Force knew where this conversation would draw but he certainly did not. Unease trickled down his neck, accompanied by similarly anxious sweat. 

Yoda’s stick rapped the hard rim of his round chair. He cast his eyes from Obi-Wan to the other faces that filled the room. “Aware we all are of the darkness in the Force. Fear it we do, even if we should not. Into war, the Republic will go, and into war, the Jedi must follow.” Dread seeped out of him, usually so guarded and calm, and it reverberated in each one of them. 

“Master Yoda,” Shaak Ti leaned forward, the high peaks of her montrals cast into the light and drew elongated shadows onto the floor. For all the refined elegance of her appearance, her face pulled with both concern and curiosity. “Have you already spoken with Chancellor Palpatine about his intentions?”

He answered indirectly, sureness in his voice though his stick twisted anxiously between clawed hands. “Need to I do not, but speak with him I will. Feel it in the Force we all do. Pain, death, chaos that is to come. Such horrors even the Sith cannot hide.” Master Ti looked no more reassured by the response, but made no indication she wished to say more. 

Obi-Wan knew the same. War undoubtedly would come from the spark on Geonosis and across the galaxy it would burn. Republic, Separatist, neutral systems— no title or affiliation mattered now. And worse, here they all gathered and knew that behind it lay the Sith. For every battle fought and life lost, something darker would always lurk. 

“While none of us can look forward to these dark times, we cannot discuss them now. Today, we must prepare, not just as peacekeepers to the Republic, but first and foremost as guardians of the Force.” Mace Windu spoke again. Age turned Yoda’s expressions into a map of cracks and wrinkles; any face he pulled looked like the fractals in crystal. Master Windu’s face showed his thoughts much more plainly— his intent and exhausted resignation. “As such, we must act to maintain our ideals best we can. It is true we have no word yet from the Chancellor. We cannot anticipate his expectations for us so until he asks something of us… we must prepare for the worst.”

“Responsibility for the clone army,” Plo Koon’s ominous prediction sounded ghostlike even through the low pitch of his mask. 

“That much is safe to assume, yes.”

Obi-Wan felt so out of place among them, head dipped to stare at his hands and his boots, following the lines of his robe then his eyes travelled out to the patterns of the floor. His feet planted in the yellow circle, surrounded in concentric patterns of blue and red, detailed and elegant. It was a room for peace, looking towards the future with hope. It was not a war room— not a location for debriefing and forecasts of misery. But here they were, purpose and ideals be damned before even the official declaration. 

Yoda’s ears twitched as he raised his head. Once more the butt of his stick found the floor and he agreed “The shroud of the Dark Side has fallen. The start of the clone wars, this is. And lead us through it, I can not.”

So that was it. 

That was the news that brought them here. 

“But Master Yoda—“ 

“A request, this is not.” He cut off Shaak Ti severely but some of his characteristic humor tickled his words. “Serve as Grand Master, Master of the Order, find peace in the Force, lead an army, all of this I can not do. Too old am I.” A heavy implication laid there— that  _ no  _ one person, not even one  _ Jedi _ should bear all that. 

Deepa Billaba’s oppositions clearly came from shock and a wise sense of hesitation, since listening and patience were trained into them from the very beginning. “Should we not wait for the Chancellor’s decision before doing anything drastic? Master Yoda, if you step down and it turns out he does  _ not _ plan—“

“Know this much I do.” Yoda emphasized. Again, he leaned towards kindness, understanding that she fought  _ for  _ him and not against. “Leave the Order, I will not, but a smaller role I must take for all of us. Serve the Republic we will, serve the Force too. Problems I have seen, dark, evil they are. One answer is there? No. Possibilities, I have seen, yes. And a solution, this is. For a new Grand Master, vote the Order will.”

Calm silence fell, for this Yoda proclaimed inarguably. Still Coruscant hummed beneath them, visible to all as the flashy metropolis at the Republic’s center. Yet their world in this tower soared so high above, so distinctly separate. Sentients went about their business unaware of the atrocities on Geonosis, and equally blind to the dawning of a new age for the Republic. Their lives remained unaffected, but the same could not be said for the Jedi, for the products of Kamino, or for any who heard the first whispers in the Senate. Slowly but surely, news travelled. In time even elite Coruscant life might ripple with the catastrophes of war, but only after havoc wreaked in the Mid and Outer Rims. Plans unforeseen would unravel. Dread, fear, the powers on which the Sith thrived would amplify their reach and leave no life untouched. 

Yet in the tower, light still poured. Floating dust lit like stars in the air, particles unknowingly old or new, uncaring for the fate of the individuals present. Watching it all, Obi-Wan Kenobi stood still. He did not understand his place in this. A seat on any of the Jedi councils let alone the High Council did not belong to him. He saw no reason at all to summon him, unless…

Yoda spoke of balance and light and darkness, the usual fears and pursuits of their Order. But there was one who existed solely for balance, prophesied and trained with this one ideal in mind. 

Obi-Wan’s brows drew together and despite all his desire to convey his utmost respect to the Council, he spoke with little reserve. “Masters, though I see what great an honor it is for whoever next serves as Grand Master, I think that given everything,  _ Anakin _ isn’t ready. He is recovering well but the fight with Dooku and the loss of his mother have left him shaken. And there is his arm to consider, he’s lost a very physical connection with the Force and to demand this of him—“

“Obi-Wan,” Master Yoda creaked, a smile on his wrinkled mouth. 

“I do not mean to sound insolent, Master, but Anakin is not  _ ready _ for that much responsibility”

“Agreed, we are.” Yoda hummed, a trill high with amusement. 

Master Windu nodded like the very idea terrified him, which it very likely did, “I assure you Obi-Wan, we did not consider Anakin for even a second.”

“Hmmmm, told you, I did, that brought here to discuss your Padawan, you were not!”

Though Obi-Wan felt the collective spirit of the room stir. Master Yoda still looked on with his own self-motivated amusement, but the rest riled with curiosity for questions opened and unanswered. 

“Does this mean you have considered  _ someone _ ?” Adi Gallia posed, giving voice to a curiosity nearly tangible in the air. 

As early morning grew brighter and more saturated, the sun turned golden. It exploded in the Council chamber, the warmth of it absorbed in each red and orange and yellow hue. Where the day before the room felt impersonally out of balance, it now vibrated at the precipice of a great future. 

Steppling his fingers, Mace Windu tilted his chin in a curt nod. “The final decision rests in the hands of the Order. Every Council and Council member throughout the Order will be allowed to vote, not just those in this Temple. And there is no limitation on names put forward.” He quite purposefully delayed a real answer. Casting a glance at Master Yoda, eldest Jedi finished. 

“Discussed this Master Windu and I have. More important, what the  _ Force _ has shown me. Nominate as Grand Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi, I do.”

He stared. It shocked him more than Qui-Gon’s old proclamation to train Anakin, when he stood in much the same spot, stared at much the same faces. Master Yoda looked on with patience, set with certainty but surely this couldn’t be right. Yet through the room rippled reciprocating echoes as the news sat in for each and every one of them. If they held doubts, they kept them hidden. Obi-Wan felt only a rising agreement, a consensus among them all. He should be nominated by Yoda’s own recommendation which was as close to the Force’s own choice as they could get!

“Master I— Should the honor not go to a more senior member?” Obi-Wan protested. Cold disbelief prickled his skin. He felt more cognizant than he had in days. Anxiety tended to wake him up properly. “Master  _ Windu _ is most qualified, and a much more  _ logical  _ choice.”

“Not always logical, the Force is. Natural, powerful it is. Seen this, I have young Master Obi-Wan. Trust in the Force I do and step down I must.” His ears twitched with amusement as he rapped his gimer stick on the floor. Obi-Wan could doubt the decision all he liked, but this chain could not be undone. 

“Is it only my age that makes me an ideal candidate, Master Kenobi?” The Korun Jedi wryly raised an eyebrow. “There are those older than even me.”

Obi-Wan blanched, “What, no— of course not.” Worse, they called him  _ Master  _ a few times now, a title he did not hold other than his relation to Anakin. As though already the vote had been completed, as though he was actually ready to ascend to this highest honor, to become leader of the whole Jedi Order. “I don’t mean—“

“Hmmm, not proof of wisdom age is.” Yoda agreed. 

Less interested in reassuring Obi-Wan of this rather shattering prediction for his future, another Council member spoke again. Plo Koon asked “When should we expect this vote?”

“A transmission has already been sent out to the other Councils. I expect they received the news at the same time you did. While votes can be cast for anyone, they have also been informed of Master Yoda’s decision, and of mine.” Master Windu’s eyes briefly cast to pale-faced Obi-Wan. ”Though we can do nothing to slow the Republic, we can do nothing to stop the Chancellor if he acts now, the vote shall be held in three days. We want each member to consider their vote seriously.”

He sat back in his seat, calm finality suffused through him. A wordless dismissal with no more left to be said for any of Council . In their own time, each member slowly gathered and departed. Obi-Wan figured he should as well, but before he could collect himself, Master Yoda hummed. 

“Still troubled you are, young Obi-Wan?” While kindness still softened his face, some of that amusement had left and Obi-Wan was thankful for it. He didn’t know how much he could take of this very hilarious joke at his expense, spurned on by the wondrous Force itself. 

“I just don’t understand.” That didn’t begin to cover it. He supposed that yes, one day Master Yoda would step down in one or both of his most honorable titles, but he never thought he would see that day. Yoda was a relic, a foundation of the Order. Most Jedi began and ended under his guidance, passing into the Force and communing with him still. The whole of their lives lived under the little green Jedi’s ever watchful gaze. Their Grand Master, powerful yet unassuming. He knew too that recent years stretched even Yoda’s spirit thin. The loss of his former apprentice to the dark side wounded him, the loss of Qui-Gon in his lineage— not to mention all the other Jedi. The more the Republic grew, the more conflicts arose the more horrors the Jedi faced and the more they lost. And now they stood on the brink of war. 

War. 

Again, the word turned Obi-Wan’s insides to unsettled bile and creeping chills. “I’m not fit to serve as Grand Master. I… I’m not even an  _ ordinary _ Master, and I still must train Anakin.”

“We have not ignored these details, Obi-Wan.” Master Windu agreed. “And we did not intend to nominate you without guidance.”

“So then why do it at all?” He huffed, a cruel laugh escaping. Anger wasn’t the word for it, but it closely resembled the frustrated feeling building in him. “I’m not fit for this! Push for another candidate, allow the other Councils to cast their votes without knowing that for whatever reason, you recommend me. You need someone prepared to deal with what comes next and I am not that person!”

“Prepared to deal with war no one is, not even the Sith. Choose you we do because the Force wills it. Listen, hear it. Your future, it tells,”

“And when I listen I only hear—“

“And I do  _ not _ ! Sadness there is  _ always _ , in life, in light, not limited to even this crude matter. But great hope, I see it in you, Obi-Wan. Choose you I  _ do _ . Choose you the  _ Force  _ does!” 

Obi-Wan stood, breathless, and watched Master Yoda hobble out of his chair. His repulsor lift chair did not await him, so he took each slow step accompanied with his clacking gimer stick on the ground. And it thudded with each step of his exit, echoing in the chamber and even imitating Obi-Wan’s pounding heartbeat in his chest. 

He remained motionless because Master Windu had yet to dismiss him. But the Korun Master stood and with much quieter steps, approached the floundering Jedi before him. Obi-Wan wanted to buckle under the insubstantial weight of Mace’s hand on his shoulder, desired falling to his knees and begging they change their minds. His eyes stared blankly forward. 

“If you are elected, then we shall go from there. There is much more to share of the new Grand Master’s coming responsibilities. Come—“ he turned them so they might walk to one of the grand windows. As the sun hit him harder with each pace, Obi-Wan felt closer to the light, as if it poured right into some gaping wound in his chest. It almost granted him that still slippery peace, but only almost. Fear overrode everything. “On this planet, comparatively few know what will come, and of those so burdened, we are still very unsure. For the most part, the city is this.” Waving his hand, he motioned to the expanse of weaving grid lines and floating hover lanes. City constructed endlessly. The whole core hummed with it, the electric life and never ending pulse of activity. 

“And across the galaxy there are even more who remain unaware of the horrors to come. Civilians in the Outer Rim, innocent lives… It does not matter whatever the Chancellor or the Senate asks of us, we will fight for  _ their _ sake.” Master Windu’s desperate hope seeped out of him and sparked into the Force, illuminating the dark recesses of Obi-Wan’s clawing insecurities. What was to come, what looked ahead of them with frightening forecast— at the end of it their duty lay. In the end, they were still Jedi, and in the end, he must do what’s right. 

“Of course, and I _do_ understand that-“ he pleaded, then sighed. Rubbing his hands so his dry, calloused palms brushed one another, Obi-Wan tensed before deflating. His shoulders sagged, eyes drooped. Weariness and resignation overtook him. Generally, he wasn’t one for self-deprecating flagellation, but he considered the tragedy of Geonosis too much his fault to shake off. “What will become of Anakin’s training? _Oh—_ and Force sake I lost my _lightsaber_ — how could you possibly want me to lead the Order?” If he couldn’t even keep track of _that—_

But Mace Windu only smiled. “You will not be leading alone. Master Yoda has quite the flair for the dramatic but I promise,  _ whoever _ is elected as new Grand Master won’t be thrown into it without aid. They will be  _ a  _ new Grand Master, and Master Yoda will still serve, just to a…  _ greatly  _ reduced extent.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “Did Geonosis really shake him that much?”

“It shook all of us. It disrupted the Force itself. But it’s not out of fear that any Jedi acts, thus it is not fear that drives Yoda to step down.” The lack of that title assured Obi-Wan he spoke of the old Jedi simply as an individual, a  _ friend.  _ A body and soul just as natural to emotions as any non-Jedi. Just a man, if a very old one at that. “It’s hope, Obi-Wan. What he sees for the future of the Order he knows he cannot bring about alone.”

_ And it’s me he sees at his side _ . Obi-Wan thought dreadfully. A tremendous honor, undoubtedly, but not one he felt prepared for, now or ever.

“Now, as for your more  _ practical _ objections.” Of course  _ Obi-Wan _ , so practical and disciplined, full of restraint and only ever anticipating the next logical progression— if they wouldn’t listen to his pathos his practical objections were all that remained. Mace turned them back away from the window. The empty council chamber spread before them. Obi-Wan had never looked at it like this before, desolate and anticipatory. He supposed if the Masters’ intentions came to fruition, this would grow to be his new normal.  _ Grand Master _ — the title sat uncomfortably in his gut. “You’re right that no Grand Master can go on without a lightsaber, though you’ll have the next few days to work on that anyway.”

Obi-Wan snorted, “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself, Master? You seem so sure I will actually be granted the title.” He prayed to the Force he was not, but kept that discreetly shielded so Mace at his side didn’t sense his resounding regrets. 

“I am confident in you and your abilities.” They halted outside the elevator shaft. Master Windu pressed the button with a tiny, frivolous display of the Force, and then winked in good humor. “And self doubt is the perfect seed bed for growth.”

Obi-Wan felt quite guilty. He should be humble yes, but his misery was well beyond that now, and he shouldn’t need consoling. 

“And what of Anakin?” He asked again, though the sound of the lift approaching marked a dawning end to their discussion. 

“Your concern for his training is admirable,” Master Windu took a step back. “And you have never disappointed in your guidance of him. But Master Yoda and I believe… if war is to come, then the Order will need more Knights. We will have to adjust our usual practices so we can be prepared for what comes next.”

“You want him to go through the trials?  _ Now? _ ” The doors wished open, and Master Windu nodded for Obi-Wan to enter and not continue to stall. But the news upset him and he would not run away from it. Anakin, hurt and lost, could not be forced through his trials at a time like this, and certainly not just to free Obi-Wan up for this absurd promotion. He held an arm out to keep the doors open but refused to enter. 

Mace sighed. “Anakin will not be the only one pushed before the usual time, but it is done because we genuinely believe he is ready. How far he’s come, his patience with Senator Amidala and his skill on Geonosis, regardless of what came out of these things, Master Yoda considers them as equal to the trials. All that remains is his official knighting, if you agree.”

How could he not? They left him no choice for his own opinion. Startled, tired, irritated yet hollow he stepped back into the elevator. Anakin, with the Force brilliance of a sun, and all the potential to be the most powerful Jedi who ever lived— but still so reckless, impulsive, and so emotionally driven. How would  _ war _ , how would being pushed too soon ever help him. No, Obi-Wan could only imagine it driving Anakin into more frustration and anger. The phantom hand that choked him jumped to the forefront of his thoughts. Knighting Anakin meant abandoning him. Becoming Master meant leaving him on his own, to face his future without the only guiding hand that ever stabled him. 

“And you really think this is wise?” Obi-Wan’s voice carried his betrayal more than he intended. Soft and broken, like a youngling. Already the ideas of what would come, drawn out in elaborate hypotheticals and prophesied by Yoda himself, overwhelmed him. How would he realistically bear any of it if he hardly stomached the mere notions?

“I do. We would recommend this even if you were not nominated for Grand Master. You should be proud of your Padawan, Obi-Wan. But he needs room to grow,”  _ and so do you _ echoed in the kindness in Master Windu’s eyes. The Jedi Master nodded his head, marking these the final words they would share. For now, all was said. Now, Obi-Wan’s future hung in the balance, and for three days he would await judgment at the hands of all those far greater and wiser than him. The Jedi Councils. 

“You and the rest of the Order will be informed of the vote in due time. Until then,  _ rest _ Obi-Wan, and in something better than a bedside chair. You can always speak with me or any other Master— we are always here for you, especially in times like this.”

Mace’s last words, before the doors closed and isolate Obi-Wan entirely were as always: “May the Force be with you.” But the answering reciprocation remained leaden and unvoiced in his throat. 

-

For the first time since his return to Coruscant, Obi-Wan’s feet dutifully led him to his own quarters. They lay darkened and devoid of any real sign of living. The closed blinds hid the ripening daylight from his view. Old relics filled the space, reminders of a life drifting further and further into a distant past. His time as a youngling, his years training as Qui-Gon’s Padawan, and the early days of Anakin’s own training. They were far from easy days— what with Anakin’s stubborn streak, his refusal to learn all sorts of traditions. And Obi-Wan never prepared for any of it. He continued, as required, but thinking and preparing fell so far out of the question as luxuries he couldn’t afford. Training the Chosen One took precedence, and any preferences or clarity of his own feelings fell to the wayside. 

Once more the Council asked the same sacrifice of him: put to rest his own emotions so he could pursue a greater good. 

And how could he ever refuse?

Groaning, Obi-Wan rolled out his meditation mat. Rather, he unceremoniously knocked it over and kicked it so it lay flat before he dropped to his knees. He shifted, swinging forward to cross his legs. Aching shoulders slumped and with a great breath he straightened them. In waves through his body, he let air and his thoughts pass by. 

Peace, serenity, harmony. 

He sought the great shining calm of the Force. It opened before him, greeting and washing over him. Oh how he missed it. The chaos of Geonosis, his fears, it pulled at all of them, organized them and promised to diminish his worries. He sighed his relief, prepared for an enlightening and extended meditative session and shut his eyes. 

When he opened them, Obi-Wan’s eyes met the amber glow of evening light shining through the slats of his blinds. Golden air caressed his bed, providing further warmth to the sheets. He burrowed further into them, thinking nothing of it. His body felt pliant, all tension absorbed by his bed. Blearily, his eyes roamed the room, searching for something. A thought itched in his brain, an unfindable thing. The Force echoed calmly but unease settled in his gut— but still he only rolled over, pressed the other side of his face into his pillow and pondered. His hair stuck out in places and pressed close to his skin in others, and a heavy taste filled his mouth. How long had he slept? 

And his dream— a nightmare surely, far too detailed, too fantastical. Kamino, a war, a clone army,  _ Anakin injured _ . None of it could be true. The Force felt too neutral for such horrors to have risen up and smothered the galaxy; it would feel tumultuous with raging anger and anticipation, sick with hate and greed and corruption. It felt… well it felt almost empty. And part of him knew that was worse. 

His eyes focused on his bedside where an unfamiliar lightsaber sat. Not his, because he lost his on Geonosis. 

So it was true then. 

His meditation mat remained unfurled on the floor and these provided proof enough. Obi-Wan turned once more, staring at the ceiling and inhaling. His lungs no longer ached, but a new pain replaced those wounds. His cut short meditation did nothing for internal turmoil and it found him anew. Sitting up, his sheets pooled at his waist. If the sun looked golden and could find its way through his blinds, then he’d slept the day away— the question though was how the  _ kriff _ did he get into bed in the first place?

His boots and outer tunic had been removed and he found them plopped inelegantly on the floor. The door whooshed open and he left his room while still re-affixing his belt. Continuously reaching into the Force, he pinged it with hinting inquiries and sought answers. In such a manner he let his body guide him unconsciously, trusting the Force in the same absurd way Qui-Gon always had. “It is the will of the Force,” his former Master would advise while doing something needlessly foolhardy. And this old trick, letting his feet guide him blindly, Qui-Gon failed teaching Obi-Wan to believe in it too many times to count.  _ No Master, I will not close my eyes and fly around Coruscant to prove I trust the Force.  _ He remembered objecting, and also recalled the old Jedi’s responding  _ disappointment _ that his Padawan wouldn’t fling himself into oncoming streams of traffic. 

But a ridiculous problem required a ridiculous solution, so thoughtlessly he followed the Force’s call. 

And of course, he found at the end of this cosmically guided path, Anakin. A beacon even in the Temple’s pinnacle of spiritual connection, a solar storm among dust particles, a diamond amidst sand— always  _ Anakin.  _ Obi-Wan stared at the durasteel door and briefly collected his thoughts before pushing the button and letting it open. He knew his Padawan’s room almost as his own, here along a hall with other Jedi learners of his age. He recalled when he lived the same way, but of course he spent little time on Coruscant back then since Qui-Gon insisted on leaping into every lengthy and tedious offworld mission the Council could offer. His own Padawan room, much like his own now, remained nearly unadorned. Only minimal signs of life. A tea set, data pads, meditation mats, spare robes, and other things he considered necessary. Mostly, he liked to keep everything tidy. His preference for neat and orderly won out.

The door hissed open and revealed that Anakin, as always, preferred the opposite. Droids and droid parts, every known tool in the galaxy and quite a few of Anakin’s own designs. Then the odd racing posters on the walls and souvenirs of half the planets they visited. In the middle of all of it, Anakin sat on his floor, flashlight held between his teeth so he could illuminate his right arm. His face creased in deep concentration as, with his left hand, he twisted some tool into the now exposed cavern of wires and sensors and power supply. Obi-Wan leaned in the doorway and watched Anakin move carefully with the utmost focus - more than he gave to half his training exercises. And with that same steadiness he twisted his wrist— the mechno arm spasmed. “Son of a—” The flashlight clanked onto the floor and he threw down his tool too. 

“Perhaps it would be easier if you weren’t sitting in the dark,” The Padawan’s head shot up to look at his Master. “Really, Anakin, this is most uncivilized.” Entering, he flipped the switch; Anakin squinted at the flood of proper lighting. 

Even disgruntled, his irritation evaporated. 

He lit up, positively beaming at Obi-Wan, his dropped tools gone from his mind. “Master! You’re awake.”

“I think I’m the one who should be surprised. You’re here and not in the Halls of Healing.” It wouldn’t be the first time Anakin escaped from receiving the full extent of proper care and treatment. All due to his own stubbornness, a flaw Obi-Wan’s training never rubbed away. 

Anakin shrugged and had the mind to collect and flick off his flashlight. That familiar forced aloofness came over Anakin’s face, a look Obi-Wan knew from all the times his Padawan tried to appear casual or mature. “Oh, yeah well— I told Master Che that I was fine and I wanted to leave so I could go visit you and show _ you _ that I was fine.” The hint of apology in Anakin’s voice lingered like the crick in Obi-Wan’s neck during the Council meeting. A subtle yet definite thing, a sign of some deeper insecurity. 

Phantom hands around his throat, the whirling almost darkly golden force behind Anakin’s eyes when he woke. Fear. Pain. Even after holding him, letting Anakin cry hot, soaking tears into his tunics and staying the night in a cramped chair at his bedside, some guilt remained. Unspoken, but there. 

“But she agreed to let me go _only_ so she could accompany me and check on you because _you_ don’t take care of yourself.” Oh Anakin always had that way of slipping back into cheekiness, all the formality and respect that should be awarded to his master be damned. 

“I resent that.” Obi-Wan deadpanned. He tried, sometimes. It wasn’t that he sought out disaster, not like Anakin. He just generally was least important, his own health and safety fell second, third, inevitably  _ last _ to every other allegiance. The Jedi, the Council, the Senate,  _ Anakin _ — his duties to the Republic came first. 

Anakin scoffed, yet a dazzling and smarmy grin pulled at his lips. “It’s true and she was  _ right _ because she escorted me to your door and what do we find?”

“Oh, don’t tell me—“

“ _ You _ passed out on your meditation mat. You were out cold, Master.” Smugness blossomed impossibly more in those little words. Once more Anakin beamed up at him. Force sake. Obi-Wan didn’t know why  _ this  _ was what he was stuck with— this proud and teasing and annoyingly right troublemaker of a Padawan. 

As he grew older, Anakin only got worse, like he filed away ever fact about Obi-Wan, like he had some archive in his head overflowing with the details— what foods he liked, what he indulged in, how often his carefully thought out plans went awry, the way he spoke, the things he so frequently lectured Anakin on, his daily routines and preferred teas. Anakin knew it all. Clung to it sometimes so he could dish out memorized mantras in a frighteningly accurate clipped Coruscanti accent, or surprise him with post-mission meals crafted to his taste. Anakin knew when to back off and give him space and when to stand his ground relentlessly demanding Obi-Wan not push him away. 

Because time and again, it seemed that was the one thing he could not do. He could not abandon Anakin Skywalker. Qui-Gon made him promise it and for all these years he stuck strongly to that dying wish. Despite what Master Yoda wanted, despite even Master Windu’s hesitations at training such an attached and emotional child. And he did, just as expected, grow into an attached and emotional man. 

On the floor, sitting amongst his machines and proud of catching his master out, Anakin’s emotions shone brilliantly. Solar rays in the Force, they sailed through unrestrained, no shields blocking them from pouring everywhere. 

Obi-Wan hummed, “And why do I feel as though I’ve slept for a week?” All his aches subsided. If it weren’t for the hollowing hunger in his stomach, he could consider himself fully healed. 

“She put you in a small healing sleep. I didn’t think we should move you but she promised it would be fine.”

“Yes, I don’t remember any of it,” he noted then frowned. “You would have just  _ left _ me on the floor?”

Anakin shrugged. The plating on his arm flicked shut, once more concealing exposed servos. With fluid movements, Anakin set aside his tools, the closest to cleaning that he ever got. No matter how he let the rest of his room go to pieces, his  _ tools _ always stayed where he needed them. 

Obi-Wan sighed and a hunger pang ran through him, sharp stabs in his stomach and a weariness spreading to his finger tips. When did he last eat? There was the vitamin pill from Master Che… oh kark he couldn’t even remember. “I don’t know when I’ve last eaten. Would you care to join me?” 

Walking to one of the Temple’s dining halls with Anakin in step at his side, striking familiarity created an ache behind Obi-Wan’s ribs. This was normal. The light through the corridors, the lush gardens and murals they passed, everything as it should be but their lives shuddered on the brink of something far greater than them. And with Yoda and Windu pushing for his election as the new Grand Master, he never before gave his future this much thought. Serving the Order was his only goal. When he wasn’t taken as a Padawan, he accepted, with tears and shame but reluctant acceptance nonetheless, the looming displacement to AgriCorps. When Qui-Gon appeared, a maverick to guide him in the Light, he rejoiced at his chance to prove himself as a Padawan and eventually a Knight. And then with that tremendous loss on Naboo came his new goal. Training Anakin. The Chosen One. Out of all the galaxy, the person who best understood the cruel uncertainty of your own greatly anticipated fate resting in the hands of others walked right there, stride and stride at his side. 

Oh Anakin— cold misery filled him. The mundane tasks of collecting food and sitting down did nothing to distract him from wallowing grief in his mind. Anakin deserved so much better than any of this. Anakin who held no control over his life ever, not as a slave child and not even as a Padawan. He railed against authority for that reason, driven to tears in front of Obi-Wan, complaining he wasn’t respected, wasn’t  _ trusted _ . No control at all. 

Obi-Wan watched that same security slip from his fingers and fly up into the whistling tendrils of the Force’s great unknown. Areas as uncharted as wild space— that’s where both their futures lie. 

Obi-Wan’s feelings folded over infinitely, each turn over revealing more complications, more anxieties, more  _ fears.  _ He couldn’t commune with the Force like his former Master had, or even how Yoda could— so how would he ever carry a weight such as the entire Order on his shoulders without peace of mind? He tried repeatedly to shake the things away, but his food tasted like sand on his tongue, swallowed down in efficient and unsatisfactory lumps. He only needed sustenance, not taste. In the quiet, his eyes roamed. 

Anakin’s right hand twitched on the tabletop. Where only hours before the prosthetic gleamed with uniform gold, matte black now formed curves like muscle and vein. They parted naturally, leaving gaps that exposed wire and the original gold bands from the juncture at his elbow down through to his fingertips. It moved like Anakin didn’t control it, jerking with unrefined motions. Too sharp, too mechanical. And the fingers clacked like bones, skeletal and inhumane snaps of metal against metal, the joints curved to show multicolored wires emerging from tubes of black plating like skin. 

“It doesn’t seem as durable.” Obi-Wan’s eyes flicked from Anakin’s face back to the curling and uncurling of the new limb. Nothing protected the joints anymore. Anything could worm its way in and disrupt the electric signals. Sand, water, any bits of dust and grainy particles. Though, admittedly the sleek black design suited Anakin more. 

Anakin tore open prepackaged provisions and shrugged. For whatever reason, he didn’t want to discuss it, Obi-Wan could see that much. Anakin never usually shied away from the chance to talk about mechanics. “It might not be,” he agreed and stuffed dried fruit into his mouth. Obi-Wan frowned. Even if the healers prioritized function over form in making the prosthesis - which undoubtedly they did - that did not mean it truly  _ lacked  _ in aesthetic value. Despite the circumstances which necessitated the limb and all sense of decorum, Obi-Wan yearned to investigate every inch of it and understand it better than the flesh it replaced. 

“But see,” Anakin swallowed thickly and Obi-Wan forced his eyes back to his Padawan’s face. “This one should  _ feel  _ better. I’m changing the tactile sensors to be more responsive and hopefully they remain just as mobile. It should give me better flexibility in the finger joints. They were great before but… this feels like me. As for what it can endure— it’s  _ strong,  _ but worst case I have to keep a glove on it.”

Doing all that work just to cover it up seemed pointless to Obi-Wan but he knew better than to object. Besides, he carried blame for the whole injury in the first place. Anakin again clenched and unclenched his hand into a fist. “I’m only getting started on it though, so right now it’s a little rough.”

As he said it, his hand shook and the wrist slammed down. Obi-Wan winced and Anakin laughed, yet the sound held no humor. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. No reason to program it to feel pain, is there?”

“No, I suppose not,” he agreed, voice hollow. The decision to avoid pain, such a natural feeling, he could hear the hurt even from Anakin. It bordered the inhumane, the droids they fought, programmed emotions. Synthetic. Obi-Wan felt thankful his appetite never appeared in the first place or certainly that harsh reality would shatter it. In time, he had no doubt Anakin would grow used to it, perhaps love it even for all his affinity for machines and advancement. But for now at least, the pain pulsed hot for both of them. A reminder of failure. 

“You’ve done quite well on it already.” Obi-Wan praised, eyeing how the slender plating bent into the feigned ridges of veins. “How did you have time to find the parts?”

Anakin smiled, a sly and knowing little look. “You were out for quite a while, Master.”

Oh. 

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and stared down the length of the table. Yes, the emptiness of the Temple should have clued him in, but any number of things could have contributed. Master Windu informed him many Jedi’s routines were to be disrupted in the coming days. The Temple usually bustled with life, yet they sat much alone in this dining hall. 

“You’ll have plenty of time to do as much as you need on it,” he continued with a loose wave of his hand. “We won’t be called to any other missions soon, so we shall have the opportunity to convalesce.”

Anakin thumbed the side of the table. A focused line creased his face. “Is that what the Council told you?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan answered hesitantly. Anakin’s hand thumped repetitively in the little useless motion, feeling the groves at the edge, flicking along them with his fingernail one way and the pad of his thumb the other. So he waited, because there was little help in pushing Anakin to speak before he willed. That only led to slammed doors and shields thrown high and other impassioned displays of irritation and defense. 

He stopped with a jerk. “And… What else did the Council say? Because, there’s sort of been whispers— like, Aayla told me something that she heard from Quinlan—“

“Master Vos, please—“

“ _ Master _ —“ Anakin’s eyes pleaded as he looked up. His right hand tensed again, a clacking of metal fingertips scrabbling for purchase on the slick table. Scooting forward, he implored in a hushed tone, “ _ Is _ Master Yoda stepping down?”

Obi-Wan’s face pinched together. Of course Quinlan Vos couldn’t keep his big mouth shut for even a rotation— how did he even find out? Internally, he groaned and screamed and sighed. Though really, he doubted the Council took any effort to keep matters quite. All would spill out eventually with the vote and appointment of the new Grand Master. Why let things fester in uncertainty for three days when the decision approached inevitably— “Yes.”

Anakin leaned forward even more, like he intended to become one with the table and close all distance between himself and Obi-Wan. “And he wants  _ you _ to replace him.”

He could not manage the words. They still stirred up nausea. He nodded. A curt little jerk of his head. But it was enough, a faint admission of what the Masters of the Order intended for his future. Dread reared its ugly head and threatened to make him lose everything he just managed to swallow down. 

Yet Anakin beamed. “Master, that’s wonderful! See, I  _ told _ you that you deserved a seat—“

“It isn’t that simple, Anakin.” Empty. That’s how he sounded. Empty and defeated before any of it had even begun. Maybe he wouldn’t be appointed. Maybe the Force would shine it’s kindness down on him and spare him this responsibility, this  _ loss.  _

Anakin watched him wide-eyed, face crazed with urgency. “What do you mean?! This is great!”

“From a certain point of view, that may be.” Obi-Wan’s hand found his face. He stroked over his mouth and beard. Somehow the roughness grounded him. These physical sensations to override the chasm gaping in his emotional stability. Master Yoda called their bodies crude. As Jedi, they were luminous, but now only his simple humanity stayed with him. Body and pounding, bleeding heart, and a returning headache too. At least those remained. 

“From  _ my  _ point of view, and more importantly, from  _ Master Yoda _ ’s point of view— Which means it’s as good as the  _ Force’s _ ! Come on, Master— it’s a huge honor.  _ Mastership _ , a seat on Council, but more than that, you would get to be  _ Grand _ Master. First Jedi to kill a Sith in a thousand years, Master of the Chosen One-“ Anakin wiggled his eyebrows, no doubt considering all of this the most glowing of compliments. “and now Grand Master of the whole  _ kriffing Order!  _ It’s… it’s  _ wizard _ , Obi-Wan!”

A choked out noise escaped his throat. “Would you please keep your voice down, Anakin— None of those things… I haven’t been appointed.” He pointedly ignored how Anakin mouthed  _ Yet _ . “And it is not the place of a Jedi to brag of his accomplishments.” 

“Then I’ll do it for you,” Anakin still grinned. Once more his prosthetic hand twitched, fighting some desire that eluded Obi-Wan. “I think I get that right, as your Padawan, afterall.”

“And  _ I  _ think you missed more lessons on humility than I realized.” Hollow humor carried the jab between them. He couldn’t believe that through everything, Anakin would ever be proud of him. Obi-Wan couldn’t become the master he wanted for the boy. He couldn’t be Qui-Gon Jinn no matter how he tried. He lacked just about everything to make that possible— the age, the wisdom, the demeanor, the calm in the Force, and any of the knowledge needed to teach and guide someone in the ways of the Order, of the light. He failed utterly, yet still Anakin looked at him with only determination in his eyes, not disappointment. 

Obi-Wan sighed, “Besides, Anakin, you aren’t…” Collecting himself just barely, he met Anakin’s piercing blue gaze. “You won’t be my Padawan for much longer.”

“ _ What _ ?” Anakin jolted back. Pride seeped from his face. Confusion and  _ hurt _ replaced it, like getting his arm chopped off all over again. Stinging, burning rejection. A flicker of anger in the Force, but more than that grief poured through before he had the mind to throw his shields up and keep Obi-Wan out of the turmoil brewing. “No—  _ No,  _ the Council can’t just take me away because they want to promote you! I can still be your Padawan! Yoda taught while he was Grand Master, why can’t you do the same? It isn’t fair—“

“ _ Anakin _ .” The singular word silenced all his building fury. Just his name spoken with both familiar patience and severity. If only he acquiesced so easily in the early years of his training. “The Council believes you are ready for Knighthood of your own merit, not just because Master Yoda wishes for me to… become Grand Master.” He muttered the last bit. It sounded pompous and undeserving on his lips. 

“Oh.” Anakin sank in his chair, shoulders slumped. “But what about my trials? I haven’t even passed those.” He raised it like a solution, and surely this detail would thwart Master Yoda’s plans to separate them. Desperation bled out. 

“They consider Geonosis a substitute, and I have to agree.” Managing a tight smile, he pushed his reserved confidence to meet Anakin’s doubt. “I’ve seen you grow so much in your training. Both the Council and I genuinely believe you are ready. But even then you will not be alone, Anakin. The Force holds many unknown things for us at present. You will always have the Council to turn to, and me, if you still need it.”

Slowly, Anakin nodded. His braid swung by his shoulder, a gentle reminder of their bond soon to be severed. Or soon enough away. Obi-Wan expected the Council to wait until after the appointment of new Grand Master to begin the promotion of any and all Padawans. Mace did say more than just Anakin would ascend through the ranks. He feared for all those pushed before they would be ready, those whose training and experience would only resemble a ghost of what the Order intended. 

“I will, Master.” Such a word clung to both of them, that title neither of them expected in the beginning. Not the master Anakin wanted, and not the role Obi-Wan prepared for. Now it sounded a promise. A gentle assurance. A whisper. An attachment. 

Their food long eaten or abandoned, Obi-Wan cleared his throat and stood. “Come now, my Padawan. I have some meditation to make up for, and I expect you do as well.”

Anakin huffed his usual opposition, but his lip quirked up in a leading grin, “And you won’t fall asleep on the mat this time?”

Obi-Wan smiled, all gentleness and calm. He would miss Anakin, whenever that braid was severed, whenever the galaxy slowly pulled them in new directions, he would mourn the brilliance of him. The Anakin Skywalker so few got to see past his awkward inability to hold a conversation, behind his quiet reserve around older Jedi and his stubborn determination to prove himself. A gentleness, a faith for all things good dirtied by a cruel past he had no choice over. Anakin held so much light, breathed it out in every exhale, exuded it in his actions. He would miss this, a friendship and closeness he never expected. 

He hummed, feigning consideration, “Right, well I do hope not, but there’s no telling, is there?”


	4. Chapter 4

For three days he tried— three days of endless soul searching and meditation, reaching out into the ever expanding Force and digging for the peace and solitude he relied on. Three days of sitting in the verdant scented saps and lush grass of the meditation gardens, surrounded by blooming flowers and trickling pearlescent streams. At first he began as always, using the Force to shield himself from droplets of water under the cascades, but when fitting into the tune of the galaxy did not prove the solace he needed, he let the falls pour over him. Pounding water to soak his tunic, his hair, his eyes, so that it might drown him, so he might choke on it and come up gasping with clarity. 

He never did. 

Slippery and slick, it always evaded him. More than once, frustration welled up instead. It strung with it all his insecurities, all his haunts— Qui-Gon, Geonosis, Anakin the worst and most reoccurring, thudding ceaselessly at the forefront of his mind. 

But time passed. Obi-Wan spent most of his first of the three days asleep. The second day he tried for productivity after waking refreshed; he tried to force old routines into place as he set about plans for his new lightsaber. He considered it with all the focus and a semblance of the mechanical prowess more inline with his Padawan’s skill than his own. But his last hilt reminded him of that past, as he meant it too. It looked so much like Qui-Gon’s and sometimes in powering it on he heard the burn and dying gasps of his old Master, smelled the char and death of slicing through Darth Maul. His dip into the darkside— just a toe in really but it brought only overwhelming waves of grief and anger. It existed for a moment, hate beyond words, metallic lava inside of him. It plagued him still, churning a desire to throw it all up, like he could physically purge the vile sickness of his emotions. 

For a sickening moment he thought it could bring him relief now, that same purge to unwind Count Dooku and Geonosis’ hold on his gut. Throw it up, get it out, make him  _ feel  _ something horrible to cleanse him. Yet the acidic bile and hollow emptiness in his stomach only worsened the pain. His lack of appetite continued. Everything felt wrong. In his quarters he shut the blinds as tightly as possible, kept the lights off at all times, yet couldn’t bring himself to fully shut the door. He even had to program it specifically to stay just a crack from closed, just so some glow poured in from the outside hallway and reassured him  _ You are not alone _ . For that night he did not sleep at all, only stared at the sliver of outside life that he let in, stared at it as though it would cease to exist if he closed his eyes. 

So, as all things come to pass, three days turned to one— but of that one day only hours remained. Hours before a decision would be announced, around sunset on Coruscant. The end of Yoda’s leadership so the next morning would dawn on a new Grand Master. It was hopeful, poetic even, and shone with all the brilliance and honor that the lightside should. And Obi-Wan would celebrate joyously with all the rest so long as the title did not bear his name. Let it be anyone else’s burden, just not his. 

“You remain troubled, young Kenobi.”

The voice startled him— it shouldn’t have. He should have felt it and anticipated it in the Force. His eyes snapped open and his pose faltered. From floating above a pool of water to dropping into it, water splashed up around him and soaked through his pants and the bottom of his tunic in an instant. 

“Oh my—“

“There’s no need to apologize, Master, it isn’t your fault.” Obi-Wan’s boots plopped in the shallow pool as he stood. Water trickled down his back side, creating streams of soaked fabric from ass to heel. Quite dignified, he had to admit. He smiled sheepishly at the Kel Dor Jedi as he stepped to dry ground. “Oh, yes, thank you-“ Obi-Wan took the offered assistance so he could remove the damp shoes before the leather seized even more uncomfortably. 

“I take it these last days have not been easy for you.” 

“No, they have not.” Obi-Wan admitted and because he knew the older Master well enough, could discern the humor lacing Plo Koon’s concern. He always enjoyed this Jedi’s company, especially as a Padawan when every more sensible Master was a comfort compared to Qui-Gon Jinn’s antics. 

Plo nodded and a raspy breath gritted through his mask. Obi-Wan recognized it as a laugh. It made some tension unfurl inside himself, chasing a light release. “I’m being childish, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps,” his chuckle rumbled louder now, and his face squinted around the coverings of his eyes. Obi-Wan remembered once finding the Jedi’s expressions impossible to discern, but now even the most trivial shifts appeared to him. Plo clapped a hand on his shoulder and guided him along a path lit by the gentle bioluminescence of various flora. Plants taken by centuries of Jedi and brought here to be studied, cared for and cultivated by every new learner. Knowledge— they always sought it out, and life, their main goal. Flowers hung down, swaying with the movements of the great trees that held them in their twisted boughs. So many times he sought solace here, sharing his own life force with the plants, with the fish and the water and with even the smallest, most microscopic,life forms. 

“But don’t worry, Obi-Wan, even the best of us have our moments of childish behavior. I do believe I saw Master Yoda steal a Padawan’s Jogan fruit the other day— Even he is not above fault.”

Obi-Wan snorted. His pants stuck uncomfortably to him, the fabric tight around his thighs and clinging horribly to the backs of his knees. “I’m not sure this is comparable to stealing a fruit.”

“Possibly not,” the Kel Dor said lightly, turning to Obi-Wan and something like a smile passed on his face, “but I am not ignorant to your troubles young one, and neither is the Force.”

There was little dignity in the subtle scolding while his body chilled with the proof of his emotional constipation, his obvious ineptitude— All the innocence of a drowned womp rat. Another apology, another poor excuse readied itself on the tip of his tongue but a reassuring squeeze of the Jedi Master’s hand quieted it. 

“No one must meditate alone. Come— Change into dry clothes and meet me in the pinnacle room.”

“The  _ pinnacle  _ room?” Obi-Wan forgot his own discomfort to gawk at the other. It was a sacred site, Obi-Wan never even set foot in it before, or longed to. At the highest point of the Temple, it housed ancient texts, and there was no need to intrude on the sanctity of it. “Master, I’ve never—“

“I know.” His voice warmed with gentling affection. Plo’s hand fell back to his own side, folding into the creases of his robes. “Trust me, young Kenobi. Let me help you find peace before this evening’s vote.”

As if Obi-Wan needed any reminder of the impending decision. But he nodded. They walked out of the gardens, together through the halls, his bare feet wet and cold on the smooth floors. Heat colored his face before he even asked the question, “If I may, Master… have you come to a decision as to how you will cast your vote?”

“Yes,” he hummed with fond amusement that greatly resembled Master Yoda. Outside Obi-Wan’s door, they stopped for a farewell and a promise to meet again very soon. The Kel Dor had taken two steps of his departure before he admitted, “And even finding him drenched from falling in a pool will not make me change my mind.”

Oh. 

“He is the wisest and brightest hope for the Order. I have complete faith in him. You should too, Obi-Wan.”

He could not find it within himself to respond. He just bowed his head and let the Jedi finally walk away. The praise, the  _ confidence _ from his elders unsettled him. It had from Mace Windu’s first leading compliments, hints of their desires yet to see fruition. And now on the cusp, this was not the first that Obi-Wan met the whispers and stares. The whole Order knew what lay in store. Aayla, Anakin and Quinlan Vos weren’t the only ones to share supposed covert rumors. Everyone knew a new Grand Master would be announced at nightfall. 

And many knew certain notable members of the High Council anticipated Obi-Wan earning the title. 

His door slid shut behind him and plunged his room in near total darkness. This isolation, he could not stand it. The Temple was home, it was family and togetherness with the Force and his fellow Jedi. He enjoyed time in the crèche, the dojo, the gardens, everywhere life soared and bounded in great celestial glory. He felt a phantom of his true self and the first rippling echoes of the future to come. Jedi displaced, Jedi lost, a Temple left hollowed out. 

He feared not just for himself, but for everything. 

-

The pinnacle room. At the peak of the Temple’s central spire, it saturated in the strongest flows of the Force. The crest of a galaxy-wide beacon of energy, it embodied light in the Force and sat higher than all daily routines of the Order. Their ideals, their principles, the embodiment of perfection. Obi-Wan never set foot in it, very few Jedi had. Perhaps Master Yoda, which made sense not just because of his titles but because of his age. After a few centuries he surely earned the right. But Obi-Wan? In his meager thirty five years, what had he accomplished? Anything he could brag of - anything worth hailing with pride regardless of Jedi humility - balanced out. Neutralized by something worse. Killing a Sith then awakening the galaxy to war.

Anxiety led him there. Through the great arching windows of the Temple, he could see the passage of the sun through the sky. He wasted the day in his attempts in the garden. Noon came and went. Dusk approached. The vote. His future, heavily anticipated, and greatly feared by him alone. 

He found Master Plo Koon once more, waiting for him at the entrance so at least he wouldn’t face passing through those doors alone. “Wonderful to see you again, Master Kenobi.” Would his own name always make firebeetles crawl under his skin? He almost wished to face that old torment of his youth than whatever his future held. Just the innocuous phrase  _ master _ tore at him, removing all honor it once bestowed, should  _ still  _ bestow. Any Jedi longed for Masterhood, yearned to one day serve the Order well enough to earn the title. He felt he had not done so, so it made him ill instead. 

“Thank you,” he bowed his head. Unseen inside the sleeves of his robes, he gripped his hands tightly. 

“Are you ready then?” Plo inquisitively tilted his head, a kind and friendly gesture the man was prone to, but now Obi-Wan met it with squinting hesitation. 

“Did I  _ need _ to ready myself, Master?”

A rumbling chuckle sounded from the Council member as he turned forward and began opening the doors. Obi-Wan swallowed, for that didn’t answer his inquiry. 

Light poured forth, yellow white and inviting. At the top of the Temple, practically the top of the world, nothing inhibited the free flow of the descending sun’s rays into the spire’s peak. Clear transparisteel and soaring arches of white and orange reflected and warmed, much like embrace of the Council chambers. Really, Obi-Wan noted, the two rooms were quite similar for their colors, their roundness, their geometric designs and their suffusing thrum of Force energy. Like stepping into the very heart of a sun. 

Though perhaps not just the room brightly shone— the doors parted and Master Plo Koon led him into a circle of Jedi, of friends and family, the closest he’d ever had. Many were faces of Council, and some were just faces of kindness. 

At his side, Plo spoke as softly as he was able, “All around the Temple, Jedi have gathered like this, finding one another as we all await a very great change to not only our Order, but the whole galaxy. Would you care to join us, Obi-Wan?”

He blinked. His eyes met Quinlan Vos, winking at him though he conversed with Aayla at his side. Had he left a mission just for this? He rarely spent time in the Temple. Few occasions brought Jedi together like this, all crowded into one room, and in  _ this  _ room out of them all? Some emotion, hot and wet, choked up in his throat. 

“What— Masters, what—“

Many of them began sitting so on the ground they began to form clusters and irregular circles. But no one was alone, no group isolated. Somehow, each one of them connected like a great spiral around the room, moving closer together into the very center— to the same eye of the storm where Plo nudged him with little discretion. 

“Come on, Master, it’s a meditation circle.” Obi-Wan turned and there Anakin stood, looking down at him and aiding in the goal of moving to the heart of the chamber. Amusement curled at the corner of his Padawan’s lips and Obi-Wan felt himself flush. Out of place, thrown out of the loop, they were all in on this plan and he drifted unsure through their smiles and fond looks and guiding hands. 

“Troubled are you, young Obi-Wan.” Master Yoda groaned comically as he sat, ears twitching with self aware humor. Yet sincerity laced his words that hardened some looks into ones of determination. Purpose lanced through the Force, a gut wrenching power drawn from all of them, amplified in their great commune. A strong togetherness, an unshakable faith in their future. “Alone, you are not.” 

Obi-Wan watched Plo abandon his side and find a space with Kit Fisto and Bant Eerin. Once again Anakin caught his attention. His Padawan’s strong left hand implored him to sit down. He was the last one standing and slowly sank to his knees before shifting into a meditative posture. Anakin remained somewhere behind him, but Jedi sat everywhere, he could hardly focus for the whirlwind their presences created. Swirling and intoxicating, this was the great influence of the Force, the lightness in all of them. 

Another hesitant opposition rested on the tip of his tongue but never found a voice— he didn’t understand. All of them gathered here, guiding him into the focal point. All of them far more magnificent than he, their signatures pulsed in symphonic harmony. 

Instead Anakin leaned forward and said “Relax, Master. Just relax. It’s for you— we’re all here for  _ you _ .” His words came in a warm puff right at the side of Obi-Wan’s neck, brushing against the too-long hair curling under his ear. Anakin’s assurance imprinted right there, into his skin, dropped ease into his muscles as Obi-Wan let out a shaky breath. 

Closing his eyes, he could not place the owners of the hands that found his. All together, their signatures blurred. Perhaps this was Deepa Billaba on his left, and perhaps not. Somewhere in the circle, he felt them all, but everyone melded like one. Crude matter— that’s what Yoda always called them. Their bodies meant little compared to the Force, and Obi-Wan finally understood. Spirits surrounded him, surging up into communion together, creating a new and unified beacon of light to breathe out. All of them together, a sparkling pinprick at the end of a tunnel expanding out into golden sunrise for not just the rest of Coruscant, but all the galaxy to see. 

Obi-Wan breathed the essence in and out, a Force thread pulling through all of them, a wave of calm. For days it eluded him and now he finally found it. Peace. It took all of them for him to reach it, but now he sank into that tranquility. 

Harmony drove the Order, harmony guided them and in his inability to find it, he felt lost, and now his path was restored. Of course Master Yoda and all the others were right. It wasn’t his place to question the Force, and to  _ fear  _ it as he had led only to darkness. All the fear and guilt and dread lifted off him, plucked and cleaned off as if just dirt or clothing to be wiped away and removed. The whole of him, the heart of him, left bare and open was free and willing. The Force guided him and for once, he did not see sadness in his future. 

The light did not diminish but zeroed in and became smaller but more refined. A beacon turning to a beam. It did so as various individuals sank out of the communal meditation, as they detangled themselves, stood, and departed. Such a minute shift but Obi-Wan’s heart pounded; worse, he knew everyone else must feel his resurgent unease along their still interwoven consciousnesses. 

The Council Members. He knew not how much time passed, but it undoubtedly drew near. The vote. Leaving the circle, they went off to cast their voices in a greatly anticipated decision. Regaining awareness of his body, Obi-Wan screwed his eyes tighter. He did not wish to see the golden glow of the setting sun, did not want to see the faces of those who determined his future. He only wanted bliss in the Force. With great urgency, he projected his soul outward again and it caught in the tides of his companions. He recognized from Quinlan teasing, chastising encouragement, a fierce pride in Obi-Wan’s abilities. Aayla’s awe every Padawan had for their elders. Kit’s companionship, laughing support for humble little Obi-Wan with such grand expectations before him. Luminara’s wisened surety in his promotion. They all mixed together into blurring trust and compassion, a cosmic blue haze behind his eyes and seeping down into his chest. Warmth and familiarity. They blended until no one thought could be separated, once more a mass of spirit rather than form. 

Well,  _ almost _ inextricable. In Obi-Wan’s mind, one celestial body illuminated blindingly bright, forcing him to swallow down more pride than he felt capable of. Enough to choke him. It’s strength battered him, a storm he could not possibly weather. But it’s familiarity soothed him, this unshakable emotion he felt undeserving of. When all others rose in harmonious unity, one tune stood out only to him. Anakin. Always Anakin. His support like physical hands, healing and holding, and Obi-Wan knew what power laid behind it. It’s intensity should scare him, but for now it’s unrelenting faith subdued all self-critical thoughts, and more importantly, they distracted him. 

In the Force, they danced like planets around their sun. Luminous. A slow waltz of moons, satellites, magma cores and icy rings, skating through the same star speckled dark matter. 

Obi-Wan recalled the first he felt such a connection while meditating with another. After his trials, Qui-Gon brought him to the meditation gardens and they bonded for the first time as Master and Padawan. He could almost sense him now, like the old Jedi hovered just beyond his reach yet still able to whisper rumbling words of support. 

He cast a futile thought up into that always dazzling Force, with no hope of reciprocation. Despite all his faith in the light, he knew better than to expect a miraculous answer from a man long dead, long passed on into the intransient unifier. To the memory of him, Obi-Wan begged  _ Master, I have so much to learn _ . 

Perhaps he imagined it, perhaps the light and lucidity of everything became too much, or perhaps he  _ did  _ hope for the unreasonable, despite his practical nature; for, despite it all, Obi-Wan felt a pressing reassurance along his shoulders and spine, a rumbling like a memory replying  _ We always do, my Padawan. _

Then like a flame, it flickered out, leaving it’s brief warmth and curling smoke in his senses. 

Obi-Wan's eyes shot open. Without artificial lamps, the room fell into contrasting light, it’s soft grey darkness filled with ember sunset. Now a hand pressed to his back, physical and real, not a phantom of a man who died in his arms. He turned to survey the faces of those around him, all of them drifting back into their less vibrant reality. Parting, many of them shifted into a more even circle, following the concentric patterns on the floor. Kit Fisto singularly moved forward and placed before them all a small holoprojector. Briefly, a fleeting thought, Obi-Wan wondered why  _ he _ wasn’t under some consideration, the friendly Nautolan surely deserved the rank of Master or even a seat on Council at this point. Yet he grinned, a dazzling and promising thing as he took his seat again among Jedi both much older and younger, content with this uniform equality, being one of many prosperous and peaceful Jedi. That’s all Obi-Wan wanted for himself. Not a name or destiny blazed in glory, but a simple path. 

At his side, Anakin spoke. “It’s time, Master.” The hand was his, but it fell back to his side as he shifted away. Obi-Wan long grew accustomed to Anakin’s tendency to cling, to stand too close, but now his Padawan - soon to sever that tie as he progressed to Knighthood - scooted away as if demurely obeying some rule, some status that separated him. An emotional distancing that made Obi-Wan stare for a moment at Anakin. His Padawan watched, face neutral, kindly expectant. Hopeful, nervous, too many things yet thinly masked by an attempt to reassure Obi-Wan that all was well. He nodded his head, braid swaying, to the projector. 

Outside, the sky erupted in scarlet and gold ribbons, traffic streams dyed like vermillion shimmersilk threading through buildings darkened grey against the sun’s brilliance. Yes, it was time, and there was no avoiding it. 

The Councils determined the whole Order deserved to learn the news at one time, so after casting and counting the votes, a holo went out to every Jedi in the galaxy to share the news. Obi-Wan knew from Plo’s words that in other parts of the Temple, Jedi gathered similarly around shared projectors to see their new Grand Master announced in companionship. The understanding was that all would rejoice the new leadership and send their prayers in the Force together. Obi-Wan felt it all around him, the buzzing, hopeful expectation of his friends, of those in other parts of Temple, even elsewhere in the galaxy. At this crux, this pinnacle, he felt all their hopes surging up, each collection of Jedi sent ripples out into the Force. 

They waited, holding their breaths, holding their hands. To anyone else, there was no  _ wrong  _ answer, no  _ wrong  _ Jedi to elect. All trusted the will not just of the Masters and Councils, but more importantly, the will of the Force. Anakin told him as much days before, that by objecting to Yoda’s faith in him, he objected to the Force. How horrible to have his rebellious Padawan be right— yet it he couldn’t stomach it. Always,  _ always,  _ he foresaw sadness. Always pain, always grief, always these vague ideas and he knew in the end he could serve the Force, yet he could not wield it like so many other great Masters and he could not even find peace if he determined it all too much and tried to leave. Twice, hoping for love, hoping for a simpler life, he attempted as much. Leave the Order, find happiness instead. It never worked. 

As far as he could tell, everyone else trusted relentlessly. Their faith proved unshakable, so therefore no matter who earned the new appointment, they would cheer and celebrate. Only Obi-Wan felt sick. Out of the whole galaxy, only Obi-Wan wished desperately for avoidance. 

The sun dipped lower, ripening the gold into orange streaked with violet hues. The room grew dimmer around them, a cloudy haze of pure light and enveloping darkness. All on its own, the holoprojector beeped to life. A blue beam wavered from the top of it, flickering into Master Yoda’s frail form. Obi-Wan’s breath caught in his throat. 

Silence fell. The projection crackled as Yoda taped his gimer stick against his chair. No other members of Council could be seen, yet Obi-Wan knew they must be there. If only he gazed out one of these grand windows, he might see them all gathered in the High Council Tower. Or would the sun blind him, reflect off their windows and towers and make him listen instead of see? It didn’t matter, his eyes stayed staring on the projector. Staring yet unfocused— afraid. 

“Master Yoda, this is. A duty, the Order has. Serve the Republic, we will, in uncertain days to come. A new Grand Master we need. At their side, I will be, but lead us they will. Trust in the Force, we have, voted and counted, and a new Grand Master there is.”

Obi-Wan felt sick. He put his hand over his mouth, stroking his beard in feigned expectation, but really he needed to hide the unease curling on his tongue, hide the grimace on his face. 

Yoda’s voice rang out again, louder somehow, amplified by his conclusion, yet tinny and unreal in Obi-Wan’s ears. The Force reverberated around in him, preparing him for words he felt etched into his chest, into his ribs. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, our Grand Master will be. Welcome him the Force does.” 

Obi-Wan swore the ancient Jedi’s little eyes darted and landed on him specifically as he sounded the too familiar departure “May the Force be with you, always.” 

-

“Are you ready?”

Obi-Wan stood crowned by the light pouring into the atrium, hands folded neatly in his robes. He cast a long shadow along the floor, tread smooth by all the Jedi who walked this Temple long before him and would continue to do so long after. Or so he hoped. Truthfully there was no telling, not anymore. 

Feet planted before a great, curving sheet of transparisteel, Anakin stared out at Coruscant. His focused breathing visibly let his body rise and fall through repeated inhales and exhales. For all his calm demeanor, Obi-Wan felt the man’s rippling anxiety. Too much too soon, everything in their lives uprooted by weeks of chaos— a lifetime worth in far too little time. 

Without his robe on, Anakin cut a sharp figure against the clean blue-grey of the sky. His tabards, the mix of leather and dark tunics always emphasized the slope of his shoulders. But he still looked almost like an overgrown child not yet filling out his destiny. When he turned, his eyes darkened with pain beyond his years. 

Honestly, he whispered “I don’t know.” 

Obi-Wan softened and beckoned for Anakin to come to his side. He obeyed, eyebrows drawn in internal speculation, not eased by his Master’s presence as he used to be. 

“I do.” Obi-Wan promised. He smiled softly and thought of how he tried to reassure Anakin before his reunion with Senator Amidala. It felt ages ago now, when he worried most for how much of a fool his Padawan would make of himself in front of his long standing and hardly secret crush. He longed to return to that moment, the last peace he had known since all of this began. Bounty hunter, missing planets, armies, Geonosis, they all flashed through his mind with burning intensity and simplicity. 

He could not think of that, not now, for Anakin’s sake. Putting those horrors aside, shoved back into dark and locked away corners of his mind, he led Anakin from the window and towards his future. Back up the Tranquility Spire— at its peak, they sat together and heard Obi-Wan’s promotion declared, and now they sought the level just below where Anakin would be knighted. “Did you meditate last night?”

Anakin shot him a sheepish look. So that was a no. “I did  _ try _ , so please don’t—“

“It’s fine Anakin, I’m not going to lecture you today.” Obi-Wan glanced at him and felt Anakin’s relief wash through their bond. Soon, they could stand as equals. Well— nearly. They  _ should  _ be equals, and the line between Knight and Master generally meant much less than the one between Padawan and Knight. Only now, it wasn’t so simple. 

Because now Anakin earned his Knighthood through events that plunged the galaxy into turmoil. For the reward of this promotion he lost his arm, lost all possibility for a stable future being the Jedi Knight he wanted to be since childhood. A myth, a hero, a savior for children like himself on Outer Rim planets who saw nothing of the justice and security the Republic promised. He needed that peace and calm to balance the constant roiling supernova of his emotions, his burden as the Chosen One. 

And because they couldn’t be just two Jedi Knights. No, because now, Obi-Wan was Grand Master. 

In the pinnacle room, surrounded by companions, Obi-Wan’s fate was decided for him by the Council and the Force. He had as much choice as Anakin. Whether they felt prepared didn’t matter at all. The galaxy pressed forward, things unraveled and unfolded, headless to the peacekeeping desires of a small, ancient Order forced into intervention, into what they all knew approached. 

“And are you ready, Master?” Anakin elbowed him, attempting their usual light ribbing. 

“Absolutely not.” Obi-Wan stared at the doors. On the back of his neck, on his hands, nervous sweat tickled him, yet chills ran down his spine. A hot cold discomfort he tried to meditate away and failed as well. What a pair they made. The Chosen One and the soon-to-be new Grand Master, struggling to find peace before their advancement ceremonies. 

Anakin faced him with a particularly dark look in his eyes, face a mix of youthful determination and a power too fathomless to fit a child. Yet Obi-Wan needed no reminding of Anakin’s potential or his age. “Don’t say that, Obi-Wan.” His name, always begging, a plea when it leaves Anakin’s lips like that. It threw their status aside and wept of familiarity. 

“Anakin,” he answered, face softening with weary sentimentality, “I do not mean—“

“Yes you do, Master. I know you.” Even though  _ he’s _ the younger one, even though an embarrassed blush adorned  _ Anakin’s _ cheeks, it’s Obi-Wan who must cast his eyes up just slightly. Anakin, taller than him anyway, kept his shoulders straightened and if anything, his chin tilted up even higher in characteristic defiance. Always out of reach of his old Master— soon to be former Master anyway. “You should believe in yourself. The rest of the Order does, or they wouldn’t have voted for you.”

Obi-Wan scoffed, staring instead at the door. Not like they needed this conversation again. “The whole  _ Order _ didn’t elect me, just Council members.”

“Uh-huh, and do you remember how they voted?”

Obi-Wan frowned, cleared his throat, and nodded to the doors. “We best go in, Anakin. It isn’t wise to keep them waiting.” Of course he recalled the vote. Master Yoda’s holo projection to the whole Order announced Obi-Wan’s name as the new appointee. Only in private did he reveal the vote came out unanimous. 

It took Anakin all of five minutes to worm that detail out of him next they spoke. Unanimous. Every Council member in the Order cast his name forth, either out of devotion to Yoda’s choice or the same unquestioning commitment to the Force, if it did indeed intend this path. He still doubted such things and Anakin tried to shut him out of those insecurities every time. Not like they were the Padawan’s fault, and it only crushed Obi-Wan more to see him attempt such a futile responsibility. 

Anakin huffed but raised no more objections. Instead he pressed against Obi-Wan’s mind, pulsing  _ eagerness, reassurance, anxiety, trust _ , a complicated and layered cocktail of emotion. Obi-Wan met it with all the passive acceptance he could muster. 

Like many parts of the Temple, the Hall of Knighthood expanded into a round room filled with symmetrical geometric patterns, golden spirals on the floor that fanned out from the center, clean lines that curled in from the arching ceiling along windows and columns. Clean and open, bright and hopeful. In his days as a senior Padawan, Obi-Wan dreamed of it. 

Both he and Anakin kneeled on the ground, laying their sabers in front of them; Jedi stood surrounding them in a great arc about the room. Obi-Wan imagined it frequently as he grew older, as he expected surely the day would come. Most other Jedi his age advanced to knighthood already— so why hadn’t he? Qui-Gon always tore them away to some new mission and when they returned, it seemed there was always some news of some new advancement, but never him. No. Instead Obi-Wan heard it over again.

_ Not yet, Padawan. _

_ You have so much more to learn.  _

_ You’re too reckless, too angry, you let your emotions control you.  _

_ No, Obi-Wan.  _

Always told no— he almost couldn’t stand his old Master for it. Now he understood. The only reason he ever even raised to knighthood was to train Anakin. He received no ceremony, none of this long honored tradition graced him those years ago. On Naboo, Yoda knighted him quickly. Over and done with, nothing to celebrate at all, no Master to cut off his braid. He did that later, alone. 

Those memories haunted him but swam out of his head as he blinked.

“Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Master Yoda greeted them. He bowed his head, face drawn with respectful sincerity. “Welcome you, we do. Prepared to receive your ranks, you are.”

They spoke eerily in sync as they intoned polite “Yes Master”s. Obi-Wan swore he watched Anakin’s lip twitch in amusement. 

“First, Obi-Wan.” He expected as much. Every eye in the room followed his movements down to the smallest details. He stood when Master Yoda motioned for him to, took slow yet sure steps forward. Green light and a distinct electric odor met him. Around the room, like firedrakes flicking to life, each Master lit their lightsaber. In a mist blues and greens and a lone purple beam, the room washed in a calming glow— the familiarity of Temple. This was his home, his duty. His whole life he anticipated this and he could not abandon it now for his own fears. “By the right of the Council, by the will of the Force, name you I do, Grand Master of the Jedi Order.”

Obi-Wan knelt down once more, into a low bow this time. Unlike the Knighting ceremony, he wore no braid to cut, nothing physical to mark this passage. Instead he stood straight again, physically unchanged but very ready to return to his first position out of the center of attention. Rather than do that, Master Yoda instructed, “Your lightsaber, Master Kenobi.” 

He retrieved it. It felt cold in his hand, it’s new construction unfamiliar, yet relieving. Looking down at a hilt that reminded him only of Qui-Gon, of all his mistakes and all his past— he could not bear it anymore. This new one resembled it only slightly in the black ridges; setting his eyes upon it did not fill him with overwhelming remorse like the other once did. Screams, death, old desires rotted away— this weapon saw none of that. He even prided himself on the tip of it, something unique to remind him always of a different future. Different goals. Perhaps Anakin’s affinity for machines rubbed off on him a little, and made him care more about the mechanics of his saber than ever. 

“Now, Padawan, your turn it is.” 

From Yoda’s side, Obi-Wan watched Anakin stand and step forward. For once, Anakin only watched the little green Jedi and his eyes did not stray to beg Obi-Wan’s opinion. And this time, Obi-Wan’s new lightsaber lit up blue with all the rest. 

“Anakin Skywalker, by the right of the Council, by the will of the Force, name you I do, Jedi Knight of the Republic.” 

Yoda nodded and Obi-Wan knew what must be done, though none other ever did it to him. In a swift movement, he sliced clean through the Padawan braid. Though it was just a little thing, the space by Anakin’s right ear looked so empty without it there.

Obi-Wan did not diminish the importance of the rest of the ceremony, but from there it all sort of buzzed in his head, words of wisdom, of congratulations, even his own intoning recitation of the Code blurred together. While the traditions did matter to him tremendously, they all clumped towards one goal: naming him the new Grand Master, and his inability to process the reality of it left him drifting from second to second until Master Yoda finally smiled and he knew it was all over. 

“Must I—“

His uncertainty surely bled out of him, for Yoda’s look grew more growing as he interrupted, “Go, you may,  _ Master  _ Obi-Wan. Celebrate with your former Padawan, you must.”

He did a poor job humbling his overjoyed smile as he nodded. He anticipated leaping right into his Grand Master duties, yet this allowance of Master Yoda’s granted him the ability to keep a promise long ago made to Anakin. 

Together, they left the hall and traveled back down to the Temple’s lower levels. Anakin followed in step, clearly trying to keep his excitement down as he practically bounced with each step. He always did that— a Knight now but still he wore his emotions as openly and unhidden as his clothing. 

“Wait— Why not my room— Obi-Wan?” Anakin noticed Obi-Wan’s clear choice to lead them towards his own residence in the Knight’s quarters. And similarly, Obi-Wan caught the pause before his own name, where usually Anakin’s voice might whine out  _ Master _ . Suddenly he doubted it would feel the same to hear that title and he was quite thankful Anakin avoided it. 

“Because my room is cleaner.” Obi-Wan grinned and shot Anakin a teasing look before keying his door open. 

That morning he tilted the blinds so when they returned it would not be to darkness. After the knighting ceremony he never got, he swore to himself to make each moment perfect for Anakin— and even this, the part after, they both anticipated for so long. 

Anakin begged it of him over and over, always nagging his Master, complaining of the limitations of his status. He wanted to be just like Obi-Wan, and as soon as he rose to knighthood they could be equals, he could do what he wanted. Still, he pleaded for Obi-Wan to find some loophole, something to let him meet his desires sooner, and always Obi-Wan affirmed nothing could be done so long as Anakin was his Padawan (which was a lie but Obi-Wan saw no harm in making him suffer a little longer).

Anakin practically vibrated out of his skin in anticipation. “Come on,” Obi-Wan shook his head fondly and led his now former Padawan to the fresher. The lights flickered into a gentle white glow and both their reflections stared back in the mirror. 

As though unthinking, Anakin raised a hand and brushed the remaining end of his braid, the little stub, fried from the severing swing. No longer a learner. No longer  _ lesser.  _

“ _ Please _ , Obi-Wan—“ Anakin’s eyes met his on the glass surface. 

“I really don’t see why you need me for this, it’s not like you haven’t done it plenty of times yourself.” Obi-Wan sighed, voice still laced with endeared exasperation. Maneuvering Anakin in front of him, he realized the young man’s height advantage actually complicated things a little. He hummed, “Kneel down for me, dear one.”

Obi-Wan opened a drawer and riffled through it absently, knowing what he was looking for. “What?” Anakin gave him an odd look, confused but also humored— like for once after all these years Obi-Wan managed to stun him. He didn’t quite know why and repeated himself. 

“Kneel down— it’ll be much easier for me that way as I don’t have a spare chair or stool for you to sit on.”

Anakin’s eyebrows drew only closer together but he nodded, “Right— of course.” He did as he was told, lowering himself to his knees and now— it was like the chamber all over again. Anakin’s final ascension, a promise long kept that Obi-Wan knew better than to withhold. 

“Are you ready?”

“Force sake, Master— Just get it over with!”

A warm chuckle escaped Obi-Wan’s throat as he finally relented. Anakin’s breathing shuddered through him and his mechno arm unintentionally clenched. With one snip, his horrendous nerf tail fell to the ground. Obi-Wan huffed when Anakin heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. 

“You seem doubtful I intended to cut it off. I made my promise, Anakin. As soon as you were knighted you could do as you wish with your hair— and though I’m no stylist I do know how to do something as simple as this.”

“I  _ know _ —“ Anakin whined, eyes shooting up to look in the mirror at Obi-Wan standing behind him, shaking hairs from off his finger tips. “It was just so  _ ugly _ .”

“Careful, Anakin, that hairstyle is a very respected one within the Order and you  _ are _ speaking to a Grand Master.”

Anakin snorted, “You hated it too, or else you wouldn’t have grown yours out so quickly.”

Obi-Wan met his own reflection. As a Padawan, he didn’t find his haircut particularly becoming either but he didn’t abhor it to near the level that Anakin did. Though Anakin tended to be more particular— not more vain, just more particular, as his preference for darker clothes revealed. For years he complained of it— the braid bothered him less or not at all, but he never said why — that silly little nerf tail at the back of his head. He wanted his hair longer, mentioned it often, and every time he did Obi-Wan gave a patient “ _ When you’re older. _ ”

Smoothing the now even hairs at the back of Anakin’s head, he then moved to the remains of the braid. His fingers unwound the rest easily before he trimmed off the last signs of Anakin’s youth. “Perhaps I should cut my own hair too,” he mused, quite aware of where it curled on his neck. Anakin was right, he did let it grow out as soon as he could and kept it that way ever since. But now…

“Why do you say that?” Anakin almost turned to look at him properly before his eyes darted to the mirror again. Obi-Wan had to hold his head in place to keep from stabbing him with the scissors. Why for Force sake did he expect Anakin to keep still— Obi-Wan thumbed one of the last strands of the braid before snipping it off. He brushed clipped hairs from behind Anakin’s ear. All marks of his Padawanship vanished, now his hair cropped evenly close around his head. All signs of their bond gone. 

Obi-Wan shrugged. He stepped back and put the scissors away, motioning for Anakin to move so he could sweep up the small mess. “I feel that perhaps I should look… more cleaned up if I am to be—“ the new title slipped so easily off his tongue earlier, when he could use it to tease Anakin. Now it sat heavy again. “It’s a touch informal for a Grand Master.”

Anakin stood once more, eyes furrowed with some consideration— the idea of Obi-Wan appearing anything less than the model Jedi in all aspects never occurred to him. So Obi-Wan could tidy things, he moved out of the way, stepping back until his hips hit the counter. The fresher provided them very little space especially while Obi-Wan tried to bend and move about. Anakin’s eyes just tracked him and really Obi-Wan tried to think nothing of it— so often did Anakin just sit and stare, caught in his own thoughts. He only worried because all the excitement drained out of him, all that eagerness and anticipation for both his Knighting and the newly granted freedom to do as he wished with his hair. 

Straightening back up, Obi-Wan let out a puff of air. It mattered little. Regardless of his anxieties, he held the title now. Grand Master of the Order. How he looked, what he wanted, those things meant nothing compared to his new duties. Really, he did try not to let them bother him so much, but he couldn’t help it. Even as Master Yoda named him he felt this was all a horrible mistake. For a moment in the pinnacle room, when he reached a heightened meditation only through the aid of so many other Jedi, so many brighter and wiser and stronger than him, did he feel - and again, only for a flickering second - a belief in himself that possibly the Force intended good for him. That possibly the sadness he always foresaw abated, and he could hope for his future once more, like he did in his youth, like he did before losing Qui-Gon and seeing the return of the Sith. Like he did before seeing Anakin’s dazzling emotions rip through him everyday without proper solace, a living embodiment of the same powerful imbalance that rocked the Force. Like he did when he wanted to leave the Order, prioritizing his own love over his sense of duty. Those days were long behind him; he resigned himself to  _ infinite sadness  _ every time he glanced towards his future and saw it waiting for him, this roiling and molten hot trepidation at his core, outlined in his future. He could bear it on his own— it was only his own misery he saw, and not that of others. Isolation, loneliness, all were tolerable so long as everyone else lived and thrived. He only worried if the loss of their happiness caused his own pain, but refused to look further into it— but such selfishness and ignorance reeked of attachment and fear. 

Fear and dread served as constant companions these days. And what could he do? When meditation so often failed him, he couldn’t ask a dozen Jedi to lay down their tasks to guide him in the most basic practice of their Order so for a minute he might find peace, apparently only achievable among a group. On his own he just couldn’t manage it. Something was wrong, with him or with the Force, he didn’t know. 

Darkness and confusion leaked everywhere, and now he faced it almost singularly. Head of the Order, leader for all the other Jedi to follow in these uncertain times. Their guiding light, their hope?

He wasn’t cut out for it, not at all, but it didn’t matter because it  _ was _ his duty, undeniably and unchangeably. Master Yoda, the Council, the  _ Force _ already named him Master and he could not remove the honor no matter how much he wanted to.

So caught in his own thoughts that he forgot himself, forgot where he stood and what he did; it took Anakin’s touch to guide him back. Just a gentle hand, metal knuckles brushing against his neck and the top of his tunic. The younger man reached for his hair with the same barely there caress with which Obi-Wan once touched his Padawan braid. His voice sounded distant. “But you’re not like Master Yoda, or Master Windu… you’re not as formal… not as uptight.”

Though he assumed Anakin meant this as some kind of odd compliment, Obi-Wan only huffed a humorless laugh. He tried to ignore it, the feeling of Anakin’s fingers thumbing through the lock just behind his ear. “Be that as it may, I have a duty to represent the Order  _ respectably, _ and not look like—“ Like a barely trained Jedi, not even ready for his own knighthood but forced into it under circumstance, and much the same raising through the ranks once again out of some necessity, out of someone  _ else’s _ need and not because he earned it. Too young, not strong enough, not  _ bright  _ enough. How could anyone look up to him after Geonosis?

“You look respectable to me, good enough to be Grand Master, even.” Raw emotion cut into Anakin’s voice, whispered low between them. He refused to move his hand long after Obi-Wan felt it appropriate, so he took it upon himself to separate them. He had to, discomfort settled in his gut, something lit with a new charge between them and he couldn’t indulge it. 

When he began to pull away, Anakin’s hand held him in place with a tightening hold. Durasteel fingers curled into his hair, a cold metal thumb pressed into his scalp. Without meaning to, a punched out breath left Obi-Wan’s lips. “ _ Anakin _ , you’re—“

“I’m sorry.” As quickly as it shocked him, the hand withdrew. A flash of black and gold and Anakin gripped the counter instead. “I’m still— the synth nerves aren’t… I didn’t mean to, Obi-Wan.”

The older Jedi jerked a nod and hoped his face didn’t look as red as it felt. His head swam too much for him to even attempt anything nearing anger at how Anakin grabbed him— He  _ should _ be upset, should harbor some chastisement at Anakin, always letting his emotional impulses get the better of him. But the tickling sensation still ghosted at his scalp— the idea lingered, of Anakin’s hand tightening, sliding back into his hair and  _ pulling _ —

“It’s fine, I understand.” Obi-Wan met Anakin’s dark, wide eyed look. Finally backing out of the fresher, he cleared his throat. He should say something else, assure Anakin he meant it, or maybe now provided the perfect opportunity to clarify rules of attachment he failed to in the past. No longer Padawan and Master, a certain equality fell between them that could not justify a certain union, a certain bond, they built up and relied on more than most. And certainly not now that Obi-Wan ascended further to the untouchable role of Grand Master. 

Yet perhaps, that closed the gap, not widened it. Chosen One and Grand Master. Both of them now destined for greatness within the Order— hope and balance to the Force. Anakin needed the attention, the focus that his prophecy awarded him, he needed the praise and the power, because he  _ excelled  _ so brilliantly and all Obi-Wan could ever do was marvel at him. So he failed in separating emotion from it all, from being more practical, more detached. He fell into that habit anyway— not nearly as often or as strongly as the younger man, but in his own way his compassion got away from him. 

“Perhaps—” Obi-Wan cleared his throat. The way Anakin’s eyes followed him made his skin heat with electricity. His hand found his beard, stroking as he tried again. Kindness, reassurance, Anakin needed those first, before Obi-Wan followed them with a plea for separation. He didn’t want it either, but they had no choice. “I’m very proud of you, Anakin, and your knighthood will grant you a tremendous freedom. It may be best—“

His commlink chirped quickly, a sign of not just a message, but an emergency. Telling Anakin they both needed space, needed to grow apart, would have to wait. Anakin frowned, displeasure rippled through him but he watched silently as Obi-Wan set the device on the table and a holo of Master Windu flashed to life. 

“Master Kenobi, I’m so sorry— We did not expect the Senate would come to a decision so quickly, even with the Chancellor’s emergency powers.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach sank, a rock dropping straight through him. Though his rank came from necessity, they did intend to grant him the luxury of one day to enjoy his promotion before diving into work— not now. Only one thing would force Windu’s hand and drive him to call unexpectedly. 

“The Chancellor has announced it- The Republic is at war.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t usually leave notes because I pretty much post and run away but I just wanted to say thank you to everyone leave comments and kudos etc.   
> It means so much to me and I’m always so amazed that anyone reads and enjoys this shit!!

Chancellor Palpatine led not with an iron will, not by dominating the Senate and all those beneath him, but by humbly accepting the responsibility bestowed on him. The former Senator of Naboo hardly earned his reputation for impressing those he met in any capacity— his charm, his physicality, his appearance, all left much to be desired. Still, his determination and willingness proved his capabilities. The common man. Friendly, unassuming, he represented Naboo admirably and when the time came, pushed for a better Chancellor for the sake of the Republic, and not for himself. He accepted power without seeking it. 

Obi-Wan, on principle, disliked and distrusted politicians. It came naturally and no amount of pleasant experiences with Padmé Amidala, among others, could change that. When required for missions he worked with them well enough. To protect them, escort them, investigate or mediate matters on their behalf— necessary evils in interacting with politicians. But the Order came first, his duty belonged to the Jedi, not to politics. 

Only he found himself sitting in the office of the Supreme Chancellor. War raged and the matters from his morning meeting with the Council plagued him. Already the role of leadership troubled them— what it meant for the  _ Jedi _ to have some impactful position in a galactic conflict, becoming commanders, generals, military leadership for which they were never cut out. But as peacekeepers, as those who swore a duty to the Republic, there could be no avoiding what the Senate and Palpatine asked of them, no,  _ required  _ of them. 

That baffling, enormous supply of clones from Kamino, ordered on behalf of the Jedi, couldn’t be turned into the hands of someone else. The Senate wanted to groom them into machines with no more humanity than droids, some programmed weapons to churn out endlessly. Win the war by brute strength, domineer and conquer the galaxy rather than save it. Stifle it, destroy it in the process— wash it in death and misery. 

The real goal was to destroy faith, to prolong conflict, and the Jedi walked into it knowingly. Master Yoda confided in him that by fighting, the Order already lost. But to do nothing would allow countless innocent lives to be destroyed by Republic and Separatist forces alike. No, doing what they could, leading the Grand Army of the Republic, following the Senate’s orders: these remained their only hopes for seeing peace restored. 

Obi-Wan sat in a dark chair, more comfortable and luxurious than he expected from the tastes of Sheev Palpatine. Dark leather embraced him, slid smoothly under the curious slide of his palm. The whole office cut in clean geometric lines, the stark contrast of reds, whites, greys, and blacks. Even the great round window curving across the wall did not bring in enough light, for the walls only absorbed it and gave nothing back. Only ate away at all luminescence, smothering the suite in anticipation. A suffocating feeling, like laying in a shallow grave and having it press down around you. 

That’s what Obi-Wan felt. That sitting in the office, glancing up at the immaculate architecture, the slight dome of the ceiling, that he actually looked out of his own coffin— the fixture in the ceiling was the light at the end of the tunnel, the Force trying to breach this dark space and pull him back out. 

“Now tell me,” Chancellor Palpatine’s old voice creaked in the quiet. His face pulled as if often did, in a tight and unwilling downturned smile. Age made him look most unhappy despite his always commendable manners. “Have the Council received a full report on the efficiency of Senator Organa’s stealth ship? I must say the technology will save many lives if it worked.”

Obi-Wan nodded. He shifted in his seat, legs splayed and trying to find familiar comfort. At least once a week they held these meetings. Supreme Chancellor and Grand Master, gathered together to discuss the war. Always the war. How the Order fared; how the GAR improved, excelled, multiplied under the Senate’s continued approval of increased clone production. He almost swore Master Yoda only appointed him so  _ he  _ would handle these meetings and all the inane politicalization that war required of the Order. 

“Yes, we are awaiting some details but the report shows the refugee camp deliveries were successful. Our last update informed us they plan to ambush the droid army from one of the business centers in the plaza. From General Skywalker and Admiral Yularen’s analysis, the Council has complete faith that Christophsis will soon be liberated.”

The Chancellor’s already limited expression grew tighter in an facsimile of a smile. “What a relief.” He paused, and as if to celebrate the little victory, poured them both a glass of Corellian brandy. While Obi-Wan accepted the drink, it hung in his hand with no intention of coming near his lips. “Of course I trust our army, but the Separatists are ruthless. I cannot imagine what horrors your Jedi face out there. And so young… I understand new Padawans are soon to be sent into the field as well?”

Obi-Wan cringed and desperately wanted to down the liquor, drown his discomfort. “Unfortunately, yes. We promoted many earlier than usual, though they are not undeserving. The Jedi are not meant to fight like this.” He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his beard. But what could they do? Necessity pushed their hand,  _ darkness _ pushed their hand— not the Republic, not the Senate or the Separatists or even their leaders like Trench and Loathsom mercilessly taking over planets. What  _ truly  _ pushed them was worse than all of that: the Sith. 

The promise from Count Dooku on Geonosis, the uncertainty in the Force, the sight of blazing red lightsabers twice in the past ten years that foretold immense hate beyond words. 

The Sith lay somewhere behind this, an enemy unseen and unknowable. Untraceable in the Force, either so far out of sight or worse, dancing just under their noses. 

Obi-Wan looked at the Chancellor, who swirled his brandy in the ornately detailed little glass. “New Knights, new Padawans, even new Masters,” a self-deprecating smile met with answering sympathy from the old man. “We even expect to send a Padawan to Master Plo Koon once he finishes helping General Skywalker.”

Palpatine curiously raised an eyebrow at the second mention of his favorite little Jedi. Obi-Wan never understood why his former Padawan sought comfort in the old Chancellor, not when he had the whole Order at his disposal. Yet he always supposed Anakin lacked a father figure. Even on Tatooine, even with a connection with his mother that no other Jedi received, he always lacked a father. Obi-Wan hardly served the same role, even denied it when early on young Anakin Skywalker asked “ _ Will you be like my father?” _ And Obi-Wan always answered, “ _ No, I will be your Jedi Master, your teacher, Anakin _ .”

Though he never intended such formalities to push the boy away. But perhaps they did, perhaps they came off exactly as cold and unfeeling as they sounded, pushing Anakin right into Chancellor Palpatine’s open arms. 

Not that Obi-Wan retained some twisted jealousy over the relationship, he just acknowledged it as another attachment he failed to guide Anakin against. Another sign of his emotions running rampant, forming bonds of friendship and trust. Another let down on his part, as Master, as teacher, as all the things he promised. 

As predicted, Obi-Wan anticipated the question so frequently peppered into their meetings: Palpatine asked, “And how is young Anakin?”

Obi-Wan answered as though he knew the boy - the  _ man, _ he reminded himself - no better than an acquaintance. “As well as can be expected. He serves both the Order and the Republic admirably. I have not had the opportunity to speak to him personally for quite some time. The war keeps him busier than most. He’s eager for missions and the Council don’t have the luxury to deny his requests.”

“The  _ luxury _ ?” The Chancellor prompted and once more Obi-Wan sighed. 

“Ideally, we would not send any one Jedi on mission after mission, without returning to the Temple for so many months. However,  _ ideally _ we would not be at war either. We may have the entire clone army and authorities from the GAR at our disposal but what we  _ lack _ is enough Jedi to take up leadership roles. While our army grows, the Order is stretched thin.” 

He swallowed a further criticism, that  _ no one  _ is replaceable despite what the Senate may think. The impersonality of politicians’ willingness to expand the war, order more troops and weapons, unsettled him ceaselessly. As Grand Master, he must balance their calls for blood, for fighting, and for justice with the actual implementation of  _ peace _ ; the details of what it meant to  _ lead _ which eluded certain diplomats entirely. 

Palpatine understood. As Supreme Chancellor, he experienced and watched over the horrors the same as Obi-Wan. Together  _ they  _ were responsible for the Republic and the GAR respectively. No one else in the galaxy carried the weight they did. Obi-Wan could despise the Senate until the day he passed into the Force, but he struggled to maintain the same animosity for the Chancellor. A politician he was, yes, but he accepted his power reluctantly and at the hands of a higher order in much the same manner that Obi-Wan did. Electioned out of necessity, not greed, not their own self promotion. 

“I do hope your other Jedi are pushed like Anakin. How unfair it would be to single him out to carry that burden.” Palpatine clicked his tongue, emptied his glass and thankfully made no notice of Obi-Wan’s rudely unchanged drink. Alcohol limited the Force, and with darkness creeping in he struggled too much these days to allow that limitation. Maybe one day he would slip and indulge, but not now. 

For now he indulged in something else: their mutual understanding of Anakin Skywalker. “Of course he isn’t the only one,” Obi-Wan shot back, a little defensive, a little on edge. It wasn’t Palpatine’s fault. The war made him anxious, and though he trusted the troops, every siege grew complicated the longer they progressed. “Anakin is remarkably talented,” he admitted and the Chancellor smiled as though he really  _ was  _ the boy’s father. Pride and expectation gleamed in his sunken eyes. “Our limit on generals means we must ask more out of  _ all _ of the Jedi out in the field. Anakin  _ asks _ for more, that is the difference. Stretched as we are, skilled as he is, we can not find the peace to allow him the leave for rest he deserves. So…” 

Obi-Wan waved a hand aimlessly. So Anakin remained off-world, constantly fighting. Obi-Wan hadn’t gotten so much as a direct holo from him the whole time. Somehow, they always missed one another. Obi-Wan too caught up with other duties, with these meetings, with Temple matters, with other battalions. Usually Master Windu handled direct transmissions to those in the field. 

The Chancellor sat up. He beckoned his hand to take Obi-Wan’s tumbler back from him. The Jedi gratefully gave it up, and Palpatine winked as though to promise  _ another time, perhaps.  _ Oddly, Obi-Wan found it fond and endearing, a sense of camaraderie united them. 

“That must weigh on you heavily, Master Jedi. I applaud your leadership in such horrible times. How Master Yoda asked this of you— so young, to cut you off from your Padawan and keep you here as Grand Master. I must say the galaxy could see more from you than just these meetings with me.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Chancellor.” Obi-Wan sensed their meeting coming to a close. Other than updates on Christophsis - and those were not particularly extensive - he had little else to report to the Supreme Chancellor. Besides, the man had other matters to mind: trade routes, Senatorial disputes, taxation, endless accords and proposals. “I admit, I find I get a lot more out of meetings than I originally expected.”

Palpatine stood. He came around his desk and waited for the Jedi to compose himself and follow. They stepped down to the lower expanse of the suite, making their way to the exit. “I’m humbled to be of any comfort to you, Master Jedi. Until our next meeting then, Obi-Wan.” He slipped in his name like an old friend. The Grand Master bowed his head, hands clasped in the sleeves of his robes. 

“Of course Chancellor, and may—“

“And please,” the man cut him off. For a second, quick pain flashed on his face before he covered it with as dazzling a grin as the old politician could manage. At the threshold, Obi-Wan could not finish his usual departure, and only waited for the Chancellor's final words, spoken in the shadow of the heavy durasteel doorway. “Do inform me next you hear of young Skywalker. I think he has a future which will amaze us all.”

Such a meeting proved not the first nor the last of his lengthy duties for the day. Returning to Temple, Obi-Wan let the Coruscant air tear at his hair and his clothes. He opted for a citibike in his excursion, though he could imagine Anakin’s complaints over his chosen vehicle. 

_ A citibike? This hunk of junk? You could pick anything, Master! A Jedi shouldn’t be riding around on a dingy thing like this! It’s disgraceful! _

But Obi-Wan didn’t mind the humble little speeder. It got him where he needed to go. Besides, it let him feel the rush of city life ripping into his skin, trying to brand itself with cold whipping air in his lungs and across his face. Perhaps he flew faster than he needed to through the streams of traffic, but he found such physical exhilaration lacking in Council meetings and Jedi Order affairs. Here, on this admittedly pathetic vehicle, he could just be a man, blood pumping excited through his veins, the Force at his fingertips practically crackling with such energy. It gave him much needed relief, like moving meditation. He saw the Force great and expanding around him, an ocean unfolding in tumultuous waves, undulating and looming monstrously— everything blurred under the universalizing grandiosity of the Force, united together and infinite. 

Since his promotion, his initial anxiety abated. It turned out most of his fear came from the appointment. Now he held the title of Grand Master, nothing could be done; there was no going back and he could only lead best he was able. Meditation came easier again, a new routine dawned in his life. Only now, a new and immense loneliness ached, etched behind his ribs. 

For a decade he taught Anakin. In a time of peace, they explored the galaxy on various missions, met so many characters and visited planets both astonishing and horrendous. They spent time in the Temple, mastering katas and meditations, learning the Code and guiding one another through the Light. Companionship and compassion stood at the center of the Jedi lifestyle. Now those things felt ripped away. He understood  _ why _ , he understood that such privilege could not continue in a time of crisis, but that knowledge did nothing to satiate the loss pressing on his chest. 

As soon as his bike stuttered to a halt on the Temple’s landing deck, his commlink chirped. Perfect timing, unless whoever called had been beeping him his whole ride and he just didn’t notice. 

“Master Kenobi.” He answered, the jarring and cold acceptance of that title long since worn off into routine. He could not doubt the name, just use it.  _ Grand  _ Master of the whole kriffing Order at thirty five. 

“Returned to the Temple, you have,” Master Yoda’s tinny voice asserted without questioning. “Meet with you I must, about a Padawan.” He said no more before the link beeped in sign off. Obi-Wan didn’t find the lack of a civil goodbye particularly out of the ordinary for the old Master, but the message baffled him. A  _ Padawan _ ?

Yes, he once expressed interest in teaching another Padawan after Anakin, but that was hardly still true  _ now _ . Grand Master, leading the Order and the Republic through a war, training a new learner was the last thing he could manage. He shook his head and followed the familiar steps into the Temple. Already, Separatist conflict pulled Jedi from their home and left the halls emptier than usual. Not long ago lofty corridors echoed with the laughter of the Force, the amiable noise of younglings and learners, mutual communion and harmony binding them all together. 

Hollowed out, Obi-Wan walked alone along the orange tiles under cavernous arches and pillars, covered with depictions of old Jedi and their legends. The artistry of the Order— murals, emblems, statues, tapestries wherever they could present themselves so that life and history bloomed in every crevice, only with no audience to admire them. Their memories turned to yet another casualty to add to the masses. 

He found his way not to the High Council chambers, but to Master Yoda’s own quarters. They met there frequently. Once in his youth, Obi-Wan found the old Grand Master’s private room terrifying, a place he was only ever called to when he got in trouble. Now it represented calm and informality, not as pressing as the Council tower. 

“Master Yoda,” he nodded his head as he entered, finding the old Jedi sat on a low meditation chair. Obi-Wan adjusted his robe as he joined the other Grand Master - who still held the title. 

They shared it, though Master Yoda made it quite clear most responsibilities - with very weighty emphasis on  _ most  _ \- fell to Obi-Wan. To maintain some stability and provide support, he remained at Obi-Wan side’s in decision, in Council, and lent whatever aid he could to the voices of Obi-Wan and Mace Windu. 

Master Windu also sat in the room’s dim shadows and bowed his head to Obi-Wan. Finding them together did not surprise him. 

“How may I help you, Masters?” Obi-Wan asked, face drawn in polite concern. The word Padawan echoed in his head. 

He waited desperately for some Master to claim him, feared being sent off to AgriCorps, and though he adored and respected Qui-Gon, he never felt like enough. That, and being part of a lineage so close to Master Yoda made him fear letting anyone down. So after he finally became Qui-Gon Jinn’s Padawan, he swore to himself that he would do his utmost to pass on his knowledge. First came Anakin, the learner he did not expect but made a dying wish to teach. And he once intended as many more Padawans as the Council allowed of him. The community of the Order appealed to him most, the sanctity of communion with other Force users. Without them he would flounder, lost and uncertain in the cosmos. 

Without them he never could have anchored himself before the vote and announcement of his ascension. If the Jedi were isolated individuals condemning all friendship, all relations, he could never stay. Home, family, friends, and duty— the Order provided all of those things with warmth and openness that poured out like a fountain from the Temple’s central spire and flowed into every crevice. He leapt into it, embraced it and was embraced  _ by _ it. That’s what it meant to be a Jedi, that was why he could never leave. The only thing that ever made him consider such an action was love, and now… he could never be sure. If Satine loved him as equally as he believed he loved her, then perhaps both their lives would have followed entirely different paths. Yet he could not dwell on that past. She chose duty and in the end, he did the same. 

“You asked me here to discuss a Padawan,” he led, eyes flitting between the two older Jedi. 

Master Windu stepped forward so the slats from the window cast lines across his dark face and robe. “That we did, Master Kenobi.”

“Bad news, it is not.” Yoda hummed. His eyes sparkled with signature mischief. The promise made Obi-Wan’s concern drift more into curiosity. Always, despite how he should not, he feared more bad news, more devastation to hammer nails into his coffin. Yet for once, Yoda met him lightly. 

“Sent Padawan Ahsoka Tano to Christophsis we have, so we agreed.”

Obi-Wan nodded. The Council, namely he and Yoda, decided to promote the young Togruta learner and did not wish to wait until the next available Master returned to Temple. “Yes, Master Plo Koon shall guide her well. He requested a Padawan and he was the one to bring Ahsoka here to the Temple. They have a small bond which might aid them both in these trying times.” 

He repeated their decision from earlier. Typically, the Council might not sway  _ towards  _ attachment, but they conceded to its uses. If Ahsoka already felt more comfortable with the Kel Dor Master, then hopefully war would not so horribly disrupt her learning. They would not need to navigate the early and uncomfortable days of just growing accustomed to one another before any learning or progress or ease could take place. 

“As you were busy that morning, you were not able to see her off,” Master Windu said understandingly. “Which left Master Yoda and me to relay her assignment.” 

Obi-Wan recalled well enough that he had the more troubling duty of overseeing a clone deployment at the same time. Of course war necessitated the army, but with each output of identical troopers in shiny, unmarked beskar, he grew more wary of their predicament. Accepting responsibility for the men perpetuated war and conflict. Denying responsibility meant forcing these men into the hands of those less willing to see them as humans, less willing to prioritize their lives and their humanity. Obi-Wan felt their deaths in the Force, so many men with the same face but each different, each one a new wound in the galaxy. 

Once more, Obi-Wan looked between the two of them. Could they have a single conversation where he  _ didn’t  _ feel out of the loop? Master Windu cleared his throat expectantly. In answer, Yoda’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Changed our minds, we did.”

“ _ What— _ “ 

“ _ Well _ ,” Master Windu cut off Obi-Wan’s astonishment. “ _ We _ didn’t change our minds.”

“Honest, he is.” Yoda hummed in possibly-sincere, possibly-mock surprise. His eyes lit with humor as he looked at his former Padawan, the fellow Master of the Order, part of his lineage. “ _ Too _ honest. Accept blame for my decision he will not. Changed my mind  _ I  _ did. Plo Koon’s Padawan Ahsoka Tano will not be.”

Obi-Wan stared incredulously at the Jedi Master. All of this fuss to step down, to promote Obi-Wan, only to undermine him at the last second. Though really, what else could he expect from Yoda? Still standing over them both, Mace Windu looked sheepish at the news, clearly a bystander to the little Jedi’s antics, with just the same lack of power in stopping him as anyone else. 

“And just what you have done with Ahsoka between then and now to make her disappear if you  _ didn’t  _ send her on her assignment?” Obi-Wan asked. Of course he trusted that given her absence, given his trust in the older Jedi, she actually  _ left _ the Temple and hadn’t been just secreted away in some storage closet. But if Yoda denied her the role as Plo Koon’s learner he could not imagine where in the galaxy she had gone. 

“To Christophsis.” Yoda answered cheerfully and Mace rolled his eyes, though still refrained from cutting in and disrupting the other’s dramatic, ever-building suspense. 

Obi-Wan sighed and dropped his head to stare at the floor. In the low lighting, everything looked soft: the leather of his boots supple and near black, the linen and coarse weave of their robes and tunics like inky water and shimmer silk folded together. The ambers and greys of the furniture muted into hazy goldens. Obi-Wan traced the contrast between his body and the physical world around him. The Force thrummed along the insubstantial boundary between both and he finally glanced once more at the satisfied little green Jedi hunched on the small squat stool made specifically for him yet still too large. 

“Sent her to be a Padawan I  _ have _ . But not under Master Plo will she learn, but under Anakin Skywalker.”

It hit him like a blaster blow to the chest.  _ Anakin?  _ He rushed off the planet barely knighted, and now Master Yoda assigned him a  _ Padawan _ ? The same Anakin who struggled to meditate, who felt the Force and all his emotions like a supernova, who shirked the Order’s sense of community— isolating himself more than any Jedi before him, struggling to make friends, struggling to learn  _ with  _ others, and struggling to explain the thoughts that raced in his head. So much came naturally to him and explaining things railed against that, the antithesis to his pure passion, pure feeling, and pure instinct methods. 

Obi-Wan sat astonished, looking now at the lumps of his covered hands in his sleeves. Not anger, not irritation, nor any more volatile emotion emerged in him— just astonishment. 

He worked to piece his thoughts together. After his protection of Senator Amidala and the events on Geonosis, they agreed Anakin deserved his promotion to knighthood. Regardless of how the war proved a convenient time to raise the statuses of those and turn Jedi into Generals, Anakin  _ earned  _ his ascension. 

Not that anyone else  _ didn’t  _ earn their’s but… Obi-Wan weighed with such tremendous guilt over the whole matter and Anakin’s sensibilities spun so fragile sometimes. Obviously he earned his knighthood on his own, Obi-Wan just wanted to be sure Anakin saw it that way too. Despite everything, he still worried. 

“I see,” he finally said, and rather gravely too. “And why have you decided to inform me  _ now _ ?” Granted, he appreciated the update, but it could have been given days ago. 

Master Yoda’s eyes shone. “Not curious you are, to my reasons?”

Obi-Wan sighed. When it came to Yoda, his curiosity had limits. Clearly, the old Grand Master intended to share his enlightenment and who was Obi-Wan to stop him? 

He waved a hand, “Please, Master. I am curious.”

He caught Mace’s poorly subdued snort. Both of them together, stuck under Master Yoda’s tortuous company. 

Master Yoda shifted forward, intent and eager. “Reluctant I was for Skywalker to become your apprentice.” Obi-Wan hardly needed reminding. He recollected his threat to leave the Order and train Anakin on his own well enough, words spoken in the passionate and tumultuous aftermath of a Sith appearance and Qui-Gon’s death. A dying wish he could not give up. Out of everything his Master could say in his last breath, after Obi-Wan sliced through the Zabrak assassin, severing him in half and sending him plummeting through Naboo, out of  _ everything _ , Qui-Gon cared only for this Force-blessed child from Tatooine. 

Yoda objected over and over about Anakin: too old, too emotional, too attached. Every possible flaw, this poor boy proved guilty of. Raised normally, raised by his mother and raised as a slave, it could only be expected that Anakin clung desperately to any bit of happiness and freedom, to people and life. So much bitterness colored his early years, yet so much hope too. 

“Know why, do you?”

Obi-Wan frowned. Because Anakin was too impulsive. Skilled yes, obviously so, but too fragile in the Force. Powerful yet volatile. They could all feel it,  _ Obi-Wan  _ felt it and objected too. But why the old Grand Master objected, no, he supposed he never really knew for certain. After Anakin was named his Padawan, it hardly mattered anyway. “No, Master, I do not.”

Yoda’s ears twitched with both humor and skepticism. Though they now existed as equals, Obi-Wan felt no more than a rebellious, naive youngling under that glinting gaze. “The same flaw you two share. The flaw of attachment.” 

Within himself, his thoughts ran about tormented. Attachment, which he for so long sought to rid Anakin of, to show that whole feelings are of course natural and unavoidable the possession they might lead to served no place in a Jedi’s life. But he never— he gave up even Satine, even every hope of belonging wholly to one person. He never fought for it tooth and nail like Anakin did and never swore his life on the promise of another person. 

Flushing with realization, Obi-Wan turned his eyes back to his hands. For so long he denied it - or never realized it in the first place, all the signs so clear that practically  _ reeked  _ of sentimental attachment. Of course he could see it  _ now, _ but back then— “I don’t understand.” He still tried to defend. 

Yoda hummed, “From attachment your promises came, yes? As a Padawan, left to save those in need you did. To Qui-Gon Jinn, promised to train Anakin you did. From attachments these are. Great affection for both, you feel. Run deep your feelings do, Obi-Wan. Mastered them completely you have not, so mastered them your Padawan has not. Suspect I do that strict with him about attachments you have not always been.”

Obi-Wan swallowed his huff of disbelief. As if Master Yoda could have done much better! Anakin avoided all emotionally driven discussion. As a child he ran away, grew cold and despondent whenever Obi-Wan tried to console him. He struggled in meditation unless something else occupied him. Yes, Obi-Wan’s duty prevailed and he never gave up in trying to calm Anakin’s rampant emotions. They were natural afterall, as he told his Padawan time and again. A Jedi’s duty was to  _ feel _ their emotions, to understand them, and then control them. As for attachment, well that situation never simplified. Without seeing his mother, as far as Obi-Wan knew she remained only in Anakin’s memories— and then the dreams began. 

If only he realized what those visions led to. Her death in her son's arms. Anakin’s hurt, his pain, his suffocating grief and anger that wrapped a phantom hand around Obi-Wan’s throat and  _ squeezed _ to try and channel his loss. Rage shining in his eyes, hate strong enough to kill in revenge for what was taken from him, to lash out and blame anyone bearing the slightest guilt to her death, to Obi-Wan for his negligence. 

Then the attachment to Padmé. Anakin’s  _ angel _ — for years the boy talked of her and took little interest in the local children his age on numerous missions who swooned and awed at their Jedi heroes. Flowers, rocks, various courting gifts handed off to Anakin and he accepted them either oblivious or uncaring to their meaning. It relieved Obi-Wan, who recalled his own not so innocent reception at the same age. A proud teenager, he reveled in the opportunity to flirt and charm anyone who let him. Anakin never did that. 

Not until they greeted Senator Amidala and a shaking, nervous Anakin said “ _ Grown more beautiful, I mean… Well, for a Senator, I mean _ .” And Obi-Wan cycled through all the stages of grief and mortification so quickly he was surprised he didn’t astral project into the Force.

“Master, I— What does this have to do with Ahsoka? If you worry for Anakin’s attachment then should he not continue on his own? Do you feel Anakin is ready for this responsibility?” A sentiment Obi-Wan voiced distastefully. The idea of it, Anakin alone, filled him with sadness. In the quiet moments, he missed Anakin. He never expected to, not  _ really.  _ He thought after all those years of walking in step with a solar storm in the Force, he’d appreciate a little peace and solitude. Instead he longed for action, the simple sliding-in-place perfection of their bodies and minds in sync, two parts of the same being. 

“Ready to teach, he is. Attached to a Padawan Skywalker will be,” Yoda agreed, contentment bleeding into cold sincerity. “And when the time comes, ready to let her go he  _ must  _ be.” 

Obi-Wan finally understood. Give Anakin an attachment, let them  _ both  _ grow from it. Give Ahsoka someone she can depend upon entirely, someone to guide her emotionally during the war. Not just Master and Padawan, but friends, like brother and sister to one another as the Republic asked trying thing after trying thing from them. Let them bloom out there on their own, blossoming pride and reliance. And then, after years of this, Ahsoka will leave him. She will rise to knighthood just like he did, and he will have to support her, have to let her go. Otherwise,  _ he  _ would hold her back, keep the attachment and stifle her or let her go and let her become as powerful and capable as he trained her to be. 

A wise move, and Obi-Wan knew it’s exactly what they did to him. 

He trained Anakin, gave the boy all his love and attention and all the hopes he once held for himself, raised him under Qui-Gon’s promise and the prophecy’s looming expectation. He always knew in the end, Anakin could achieve more, and he could never stop his knighting, his ascension through the Order. The Chosen One. 

“When will Ahsoka make it to Christophsis?” Obi-Wan asked, sparing a glance at Mace when the Korun grimaced. 

“Well, yes that is why Master Yoda agreed we should finally inform you. The Separatist blockade reformed, General Skywalker sent a quick transmission to warn us but we’ve heard no word since. But above the planet, Admiral Yularen and Padawan Ahsoka are working to land. So… something has come up and we likely won’t hear again until the matter is resolved. In any case, she is  _ there _ and any moment now, Anakin might discover he has a Padawan to teach.” 

“Oh, I see,” Obi-Wan nodded. He smiled grimly. “So this is a warning, if my former Padawan comms me out of the blue, demanding an explanation, I need only mention Master Yoda’s name.”

“Satisfied with that, he will be.” Yoda mused, grinning. Mace’s anxiety drifted away with a little shake of his head. 

Obi-Wan breathed easier. Anakin might be surprised, insulted,  _ inconvenienced _ at first, but Obi-Wan trusted he would see reason in time. If not… well then he would be the one to deny any pleas of  _ “I can’t teach a Padawan!” _ from the young man. Begrudgingly he agreed with Yoda, and figured Mace felt the same. A Padawan could teach Anakin patience in a way his own years as a learner struggled to. Patience, responsibility, leadership. 

“Another matter there is,” Yoda broke his thoughts. 

Master Windu paced into the lines of sunlight even further. His emotional displeasure lessened, no longer the discomfort at going behind Obi-Wan’s back but some other annoyance nagged at his signature. A more somber feeling, inky and unpleasant. “I trust the Chancellor has kept you well informed of the Republic’s efforts to gain access to Hutt controlled space.”

Obi-Wan nodded, his brief wry resolve replaced with sincerity- Anakin’s inconveniences forgotten in the name of the greater galaxy. 

Palpatine mentioned many matters fleetingly, preferring the pretence they met as friends and not as leaders of great and respected groups. Yet the Hutt hyperlanes he sighed and groaned about frequently. The Republic needed to secure the routes so the Separatists didn’t cut them off, allowing them to take over whole swaths of the galaxy in one swoop. A daunting prospect undoubtedly, but for so long the Hutts did not appear keen on appealing to either group so the matter remained a stalemate. 

“Well, this morning the proposal came through to send a Jedi to speak terms to Jabba on the Republic’s behalf.” This morning? Obi-Wan’s discontent only deepened. Why had the Chancellor not mentioned it himself? That was the  _ entire _ purpose of their little consultations. 

“And I suppose I am the obvious choice, aren’t I?” He sighed. The Order’s  _ negotiator.  _ Not to mention that now as Grand Master, his words held more sway, his presence more authority too. Not that Jabba could be particularly awed by such mundane titles or honorifics mattering mostly to those within the Order. A few Senators, some of Coruscant elite liked to breathe his name with a little more reverence now, though nothing about him changed.  _ Grand _ Master Kenobi, blessing them with his appearances. As though it made him more powerful, and them more important for even gazing upon him. 

Entirely untrue, and he abhorred the misunderstood prestige of it. Yet sometimes it did serve him, allowed him to make requests on behalf of the Order that no other Jedi could get away with, not even Master Yoda. 

Master Yoda who in the end was right. The Order needed a new face, someone the Republic could look at hopefully and feel some relation with, it was the only way to guide them in this war. Every day their internal concerns grew more public, advertised by holos and the Chancellor’s own efforts to keep the people informed of how the Republic fared. He only hated that the chosen face was  _ his.  _

“Yes,” Mace nodded. “There is a transport already prepared to bring you to Tatooine. We will keep you updated on the siege over Christophsis and any other missions, but the Senate has pushed this with the utmost importance. Dealing with the Hutts is unavoidable and gaining their favor is necessary for us to have any chance of winning and ending this conflict.” Mace spoke gravely, with unquestionable finality. Obi-Wan understood quite well he could not fail. If he did not secure access to the hyperlanes, then the Separatists would and all their sacrifices so far would be for nothing. The loss on Geonosis would be for nothing. 

“Of course.” Obi-Wan stood, clasped his hands before him and bowed his head. Over a decade ago he knew nothing of Tatooine, just some backwater little dust planet in the Outer Rim. Now he knew it as the planet always changing his life, everything always relied on Tatooine. First Anakin, and now this. And dealing with Jabba was much like dealing with a politician, only worse. 

-

Aboard the transport, isolation enveloped him. He didn’t need an escort or clone guards with him. Mace asked, but he insisted showing up to Jabba’s alone was the best call, to avoid making the Hutt feel unnecessarily threatened. So he set his coordinates and inspected the ship alone, and in the jump to hyperspace only his body felt the rush and only his eyes watched his surroundings blur. 

The mission allowed him a small luxury, or rather, this transport did. Since becoming Grand Master, the galaxy overloaded him with the responsibility. Even with tasks divided among three Jedi, himself and Masters Yoda and Windu, he carried the brunt of it, exactly as he was elected to do. 

He wanted to go through his meditations. Obi-Wan left the front of the ship and found the bunk room. A quaint, bare little quarter, it provided him just enough space. Really, he could do it anywhere in the ship, not like he bothered anyone, but he did appreciate the closeness of the walls, the idea of privacy that it gave him. It almost let him believe that beyond that door, others awaited him and his life hadn’t drifted into one of singular duty without companion or equal.

He stripped out of his robe and tunics until he stood barefoot, clad only in his leggings. The ship’s recycled air blew cold and antiseptic against his skin. All physical sensations - the hum of the ship under him, the space outside that he hurtled through unbothered, the impersonal press of a durasteel floor against his feet - he breathed in, shut his eyes, and abandoned them. In one exhale he passed into the greatness of the Force, felt it surge up around him as he began moving through meticulous repetitions. Slowly, he worked through them, striving not for speed or power but for efficient perfection, holding the forms and familiarizing himself with each tiny shift of his body. His body and his spirit melded so a quirk of his finger became a release of emotion and tension, a sweep of his arms over his head pushed away darkness. 

Light—  _ peace, knowledge, harmony.  _ In and out, serenity waved over him as he expanded out. He could not sense darkness, yet he knew it hovered out there, just out of sight. An ominous presence to stifle the whole galaxy. He could not reach into the Force like Master Yoda, see shatterpoints like Master Windu, or even experience every nuance of it like Anakin could. Compared to so many, he lacked a particularly special experience in the Force. Not that he minded. He got what he needed out of it, served a purpose greater than him. The fact that he didn’t dazzle, didn’t astound those around him with his brilliance didn’t bother him. He preferred it really. A humble Jedi, no different than the thousands before him or the thousands after. One star in a cosmos. 

A quick beep of his communicator broke through his meditation. The planetary goal at the end of his hyperspace ascension, a solid point in his swirling, ethereal illumination. His vivid enlightenment subdued, darkened back into mundane reality as he opened his eyes again. For a moment, the room appeared brighter, but with a blink everything slotted into place. With no one there to see, he continued his aerobic meditations and answered the call with a Force flick of the button. 

Four figures appeared. Mace Windu, Plo Koon, Anakin, and his new Padawan at his side. She stood with hands on her hips, already looking eerily like a young, petulant Skywalker— with all the attitude and determination Obi-Wan recalled from years earlier. Despite the formality of the meeting, the Grand Master grinned. Anakin surely had his work cut out for him with her as a student. He almost wished he could be there on the front of the war seeing it for himself. Instead his duty drove him elsewhere. Tatooine. 

“Master Kenobi,” Mace nodded his head and before Obi-Wan managed a reply Anakin cut in. 

“Master, why can’t we see you?”

“I’m quite occupied right now,” A lie as he breathed through another full body motion, stretching into a low lunge. “I do hope just my voice will suffice.” Though the holos went one way and they could not see him, he had no trouble watching Anakin indiscreetly roll his eyes. “How are things on Christophsis?” He muffled a groan as he lifted himself back up, earning a nice, unintended pop along his spine. 

“Anakin and Ahsoka successfully dismantled a blockade on the surface. Together with Master Plo Koon they have won Christophsis back.” Mace reported and Obi-Wan swore an echo of a smile appeared on his face for just a second. He preferred to remain serious but Obi-Wan could recognize his subdued pride all too well. 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Obi-Wan nodded for himself alone. He wanted to compliment them, compliment  _ Anakin _ , ask about his new Padawan, ask all sorts of things. Yet in his head reverberated all the memories of Council reports to Yoda, and how Yoda gave curt responses, only hints of his pride or amusement. When he was disappointed, the old Master held few reservations in revealing that, but as for abundant praise, he kept that hidden away. Feeling some consistency was necessary, Yoda led the Order phenomenally and Obi-Wan did not trust himself to deviate from the established expectations. So he swallowed down every other thought bubbling in him. 

“There is another matter,” Master Windu stated, the severity of his face restored. Always. Always another matter. A new tip about Dooku, about Grievous, a new disturbance in the Force, another blockade or captured planet or trade route to secure or proposals in the Senate to oversee. Matters that rightfully should not be theirs, matters belonging to the Republic, to  _ democracy  _ and not to an Order of peacekeepers.

“It seems, and we were not aware of this in first sending you to negotiate on the Order’s behalf, but Jabba’s son has been kidnapped.” Obi-Wan fell out of his stretch, almost collapsing to the floor in the complete loss of his concentration. 

“He still expects your arrival to discuss the hyper lanes but…” Mace paused and Obi-Wan watched Anakin darken with displeasure. Surely anyone in his presence could feel it’s inky press in the Force, a static charge flashing to life with poorly suppressed destructive power. ”Jabba will not agree to anything until his son, Rota, is returned. And for this he has also asked that we find him. Anakin and his new Padawan will track down the child. The Chancellor himself handled that news so I’m sorry we could not inform you sooner, but he proposed Skywalker’s assignment.” 

Obi-Wan understood. Their hands were tied and none could refuse. If the Chancellor extended the promise to Jabba that the Jedi would find his son, then find him they must. 

Which meant if anything went wrong— if the Hutt child had already been killed, if Anakin could not retrieve him in time or at all, then  _ Obi-Wan _ , as he hurtled through hyperspace towards Tatooine, would face the consequences. If Jabba decided not to let him go, decided to blame the Jedi, to  _ kill _ — his life alone would stand before the Hutt. A face for the Order, a face for him to blame. 

“Thank you.” The sweat from his exertion turned his skin cold. Nausea tugged inside him, crawled up his throat demanding to escape. “Even in light of this I will not fail. We know our own responsibilities to the Republic, and all we can provide is our assistance.” They could not see how he tugged at his beard, how his face lined with concern and worry. They could not feel that his ship vibrated not only with its own lightspeed propulsion but also with his anxieties, turning over and multiplying in the Force to an extent he did not even detect. Any Jedi present would fall to their knees under the unshielded assault, yet he didn’t even notice. 

Purpose steadied and solidified him. No more could be said and as the highest authority, he earned the final word, “If that is all, I expect all available updates to be sent to me. I will review them the best I can until my arrival. It is likely your search and my negotiations will limit communications, but I have faith.” he breathed sharply out his nose, kept the noise quiet and for himself only. A sigh, a scream, any true portrayal of his frustration they would hear, so he kept it hidden. “May the Force be with you all.”

The holos flicked off and Obi-Wan covered his face with his hands. Control leaked out of him like slick oil onto the ground, like he was some malfunctioning droid, and not a man. He sank to his bunk and almost did not notice the still beeping glow of one projection. 

“Master?” Anakin’s voice sounded out, filled with concern and Obi-Wan again wondered if his former Padawan forgot how the lack of visual communication only went one way. The small flickering blue holo transmission poorly replaced real company.

For months he watched his former Padawan develop, posture changing with the effects of both command and weariness. When he returned from one mission with a fresh cut over his eye, Obi-Wan finally realized just how much could happen outside of his control. Every other mark and scar, he was there for, for the destruction and the healing— but now Anakin could experience lifetimes worth of pain and Obi-Wan wouldn’t have a clue.

He dressed as usual, in dark Jedi robes, yet now most of the fabric remained covered by plated armor. Black beskar over his chest and curved shoulder coverings that did little to protect his arms, even with the similarly dark gloves reaching up to his elbows. A mix of the boy from Tatooine who dreamt of becoming a Jedi and a man forced to lead a war for the sake of the whole galaxy, destined not only as the Chosen One but as the Republic’s hero as well. 

“I am fine, Anakin.” He assured, not needing to hear more concern. Anakin worried enough already and with the war, with Ahsoka now, the last thing Obi-Wan wanted was the young man stressing himself where he needn’t. “Unless you have any more updates, or questions perhaps, I need to prepare for my meeting with Jabba. This does quite change how I must approach him.”

Originally he planned on professing the Republic’s debt to the Hutt if they helped, and how such gratitude might alleviate certain limitations or fears of the famed family. It was horrible and corrupt, yet he had no choice. Separatist control of Hutt space would destroy all hope for the Outer Rim, and for the war altogether. Now, the capture of Rota required that he provide sympathy first and foremost and place diplomacy supposedly on the back burner. A perfectly political and roundabout method of confessing his intentions— the exact circumspect dialogue he despised in politicians. Now the galaxy begged it of him, an affront to his personal morals, yet he could not afford to uphold them when the galaxy, the integrity of the Order as a whole was at stake. 

The severity of Anakin’s face melted, and he nodded his head. And for a moment, Obi-Wan hated it. He wanted Anakin to fight him, to protest that Obi-Wan was shutting him out again. If they were equal, Anakin could protest, yet not now. Not to his Grand Master. It cut a cold shield down between them, made all Anakin’s passion retreat so Obi-Wan could no longer watch the shadows of it flicker on his face. 

“No, there is nothing else Master.”

Obi-Wan sighed. Where he folded them earlier, he retrieved his tunics and slipped them back over his chilled skin. He wrapped himself, seeking comfort, seeking familiarity. “I shall see you back on Coruscant when this is all over, or on Tatooine, expecting all goes well.” He managed a tight smile but again, there was no one to see it. 

Anakin’s lips curled up like he heard it anyway. Maybe he did- they certainly knew each other well enough to catch every note of feeling in their voices. Obi-Wan ached for that again, robbed from him not by his promotion, but by the war. 

“Of course. And all  _ will _ go well. I promise. So don’t worry,” Anakin’s phantom grin stretched into something knowable, a proud and rather smug look that spoke of a life of assured confidence and the ability to deliver on nearly everything he promised. Anakin was confident, but he was not a liar or some needless braggart. When he acted, he did so entirely, and when he spoke, he believed his words with the same dead certainty. “I won’t leave you to slum it with a Hutt for long.”

Aside from Anakin’s durasteel strong guarantee, Obi-Wan felt a tendril of promise reach out to him, a lingering vestige of his meditation— a promise from the Force, breathed out in a whispered yet unyielding caress: this wasn’t the end. Not for him, not for Anakin, not for anyone. This matter with access to Hutt space and the complication over the kidnap of Jabba’s son meant truly little for their futures. The Force demanded, in the thunderous baritone of his former Master, that he remain in the moment and not look forwards. 

Yet he felt it, neither beginning nor end. A blip. An episode. A detail. Only a part of a grander story unraveling. It did not appear as the glowing reassurance as the Force perhaps intended. Instead it also promised this conflict would drag out with more unnecessary casualties, more complications, and a continuation of the same darkness he already sensed clouding his peripheries. 

He could not see the future, only glimpse this reverberation of it that the Force allowed him - perhaps it did not even know, with too many possibilities before them maybe even the source of life, the very thing binding the universe together could not tell its own destiny - but he knew whatever path the Order continued on would end neither soon nor simply. Death and tragedy lay in front of them still, pulsing and immovable. For all else he could not see, that much at least, Obi-Wan was sure of. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s day— this is such a fun and romantic chapter :) 🧡

For the first time in a very long time, Obi-Wan’s footsteps did not sound alone on the floor of the Temple. These days, with the halls empty, Jedi sent off to odd corners of the galaxy, he grew accustomed to the solitary noise of just his body moving alone through the once bubbling, vibrant rooms on Coruscant. 

Almost alone to stay behind, his duties as Grand Master required he remain at the Temple and on Coruscant and not rush to really help anyone. Instead he issued commands and only went off world in dire need, when no other Jedi could be spared. Such was the case in negotiating with the Hutt, where his skill in crafting words and gaining favors took precedence over the general need for his presence on the city planet. 

Meetings, endless meetings, with everyone imaginable held him hostage. The Chancellor, various Senators, trade delegates, representatives from Kamino and the GAR, all to oversee a war that stripped him bare of his energy and pride, robbing him of any sense of goodness. How - when he  _ felt  _ the pain and loss echoing in the Force at all hours, when he saw Jedi return bleeding their own grief into the galaxy - could he justify any of it? 

Every time he re-entered the Chancellor’s crimson cavern of an office he wanted to scream  _ No— It’s too much.  _ The terror inside him clawed, eager to explode out from him in rage, grief, loss,  _ fear _ . Always fear.

So he shut it up. Projected it into the Force when he could, let meditation calm him and guide him and restore harmony to his own consciousness. Mostly he stifled it down, packed and compressed his emotions in the same way he always told Anakin not to. 

Because when he was alone, there was no one to distract him, no one to help him, no one to even see his pain as it chipped at him and ate away. 

“Master Kenobi!” 

His head shot up. Obi-Wan had looked idly at his hands as he walked slowly, low in the general direction of the companion at his side but he roused at the summons. 

“Master Kenobi!!” The child called again, and the young Grand Master smiled. 

“Yes little one?”

The child, a Twi’lek youngling, bounced between his feet. One moment he grinned with overflowing excitement and the next his face set with pure determination. “I think I can do it now!” He waved his practice saber, as if Obi-Wan could possibly have forgotten what he talked about. 

“Let me see then,” he nodded, coming to a stop at the edge of a sparring mat. 

The Temple training dojo rose up in straight lines and warm lighting around them, tan walls and padded flooring, clearly defined spaces for practice matches and individual training. A wall of training sabers and staffs, droids for blind Force practice, programmable partners and all the other materials accumulated and shared for centuries. History in each object, community echoing in the room’s very core memories. 

Side by side, Obi-Wan and Master Yoda watched the youngling, face etched with focus, leap into action. His small, undeveloped stature marked his movements with a juvenile lack in coordination, made up for with his excitement and commitment. He whirled through a kata, finally landing a maneuver he struggled with all morning. Obi-Wan tried to suppress his grin but failed miserably - between himself and Yoda, he hardly ever appeared the more reserved or impassive Grand Master. 

“Wonderful!” He exclaimed as soon as the boy finished, panting and eyes glistening with expectation. “You’ve improved greatly. The Order may have a new master in Ataru before we know it.”

The youngling broke out of his stance, “Master Yoda said you used to practice Ataru!” His lekku swung as he nodded his head, peering up at Obi-Wan. Further back on the mat, other children in his crèche clan peered over at their friend receiving attention from both Grand Masters. 

“That is true,” Obi-Wan agreed with a little more solemnity. He knelt so he met the boy at his level. “A good Jedi works to learn and understand  _ all _ forms of lightsaber combat, even those we may not be particularly good at.”

Though that was never why he preferred Form III, famed for its athleticism. No, after almost being sent to AgriCorps, after getting stuck with a calm and unusual Master like Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan pursued the style that made his blood beat hot and fast. He wanted the aggression, the coursing feeling of such a Form’s reliance on both Force and body. He felt it guide and propel his movements with weightlessness, with urgency, like it made him an unstoppable weapon. Of course, he never mastered it as a Padawan and all too soon discovered its flaws. And Qui-Gon paid the consequence for that. 

Little defense, little awareness, he never balanced out the agile power of it with any perfection— raw and unrefined, his skill with a saber was always found wanting. 

Smiling softly, he nodded, “But I must say, you show much more promise with the Form than I ever did.” 

He watched the boy’s face color a darker shade of green as he tried not to laugh— could he  _ really  _ be better than the Order’s Grand Master? Obi-Wan nodded for him to return to his crèche mates and he ran to them giggling, whispering and cheering. At least the war could not take away these things, these little moments. 

“Good with them, you are,” Master Yoda commented. They resumed their pace around other clans of children, surveying the future of the Order, guiding and watching as they so often did. “Steal my teaching in the crèche you must not.” Obi-Wan swore the old Grand Master looked ready to swat him with his walking stick. 

“I would never, Master.” He slipped his hands into his sleeves. They took slow steps circling the floor. His thoughts lingered on the child’s interest in his Form— he never gave it much consideration anymore. Really, he never could have mastered Ataru. It made him too reckless. As a Padawan he didn’t care enough to realize the faults of his training. Other Jedi,  _ better _ Jedi excelled where he slipped. Such was the way of things. 

“Why did you tell your students about my training?” He asked, frowning for a moment. For one Master to share their history with their own Padawan was one thing, or for the same knowledge to pass on in a more individual setting he understood. He could not fathom a reason for Master Yoda to tell a whole class about his training history. 

“Curious, they were.” He paused and Obi-Wan considered the younglings again. In his crèche days, no one wondered how  _ Yoda _ trained or what  _ he _ did. His age and title more than proved his authority— they did not wonder what made  _ him _ better or why, because the  _ Force _ glowed around him, guided them all in his sure yet hobbling footsteps. “Not just because Grand Master, you are. If so, care more about my past, they would.” Yoda hummed with trilling annoyance. 

“First Jedi to kill a Sith in a thousand years, you are, Master Obi-Wan. To them, a hero, this makes you.” 

Obi-Wan scoffed— he meant to keep the disbelieving noise to himself; he couldn’t even look down at the older Master and kept his eyes surveying the clusters of Jedi. Young and old, here they still gathered like chaos did not reign elsewhere. It should relieve him, but really it unsettled him. Once this room stood for their own personal meditations, their physical communion with the Force through katas, lightsaber forms, a mastering of the corporeal with the spiritual. Now they trained with a military duty in mind. 

“Should they not look up to those actually accomplishing something? I hear Mace took down a droid squadron single handedly on Ryloth.” When the Jedi reported his missions success, Obi-Wan listened but paid attention mostly to his panting urgency, to the sweat that glistened even over holo, to the shortness of his breath and the blaster fire that singed ghastly holes in his tunics. A fire in his eyes Obi-Wan could only imagine,  _ that  _ was what the rest of the Order faced while he sat in meetings with the Chancellor, asked to coordinate attacks and deploy clones like pawns in some grand game.

Yoda hummed and brought them to a standstill. At one edge of the room, they turned and he waved a clawed hand at the room. “Make one great, war does not. Look to each other we  _ all  _ must.” 

For months these halls laid empty, and now through some miracle for which Obi-Wan was not grateful, they received little word of the moments of either Dooku or Grievous. He felt like a sitting duck, but it granted most Jedi one thing: leave. Time away from the front, time in the Temple and not chasing ghosts around in star destroyers. 

It allowed Luminara to guide Barriss through a series of slow training exercises, each of them moving like a dance around one another. Their sabers swung in graceful green blue arcs as they circled and spun. 

On the adjacent mat, two younglings on the cusp of their own Padawanships battled brutally with low powered training sabers, clashing with stunning electric hisses, but they both grinned and laughed whenever they stumbled or smacked one another with blades that didn’t carry enough heat to burn, just to tickle. 

“What led us to war, we all try to understand.” Yoda nodded again, placing both hands atop his gimer stick and nodding. His pose perfectly suited a statue for the gardens, it could be titled  _ Wisdom _ or something, for the way the old Jedi looked ever the image of timeless sage advice, even looking at him could soothe the spirit. “But war and darkness we all fear. Fear we must not, but we do. Look for hope instead, and hope they see in a Jedi who kills legends. A Jedi good enough to train the Chosen One. A Jedi humble enough to lose a planet.” 

Obi-Wan finally looked down at him, but Yoda still watched the room with an all too knowing grin. “Master, I did  _ not  _ lose—“

“Lose it you did. Embarrassing, that is, yes?” the little Grand Master insisted. Obi-Wan felt too touched by the attempt at humor to point out the reality. He  _ didn’t  _ lose the planet, the Sith concealed it. What power could one person hold to hide a whole planet, to hide a scheme such as that for so long? Yoda smiled but Obi-Wan felt his insides wither under the usual echoing reminder—  _ this was all his fault. KaminoGeonosiscloneswar _ —

A reaching, warm press shut up his thoughts. It did not remove them or heal them but made his mind go scattering to seek a new source, something else to focus on with all the eager attention and desperation of a child. A tendril of familiarity and his eyes shot from Yoda to the other side of the dojo. He kept himself jarringly still, like any movement would give away his excitement. 

Ahsoka entered first, lightsaber already ignited as she spun it in a neat green circle at her side. She grinned, bright and happy and carefree but even at this distance Obi-Wan noticed her eyes set with a predatory focus. He could only imagine the endless things her Master might have said to earn that reaction. And he followed just a step behind, nudging her side and pointing to an open sparring mat. He held tension in his shoulders, high and unsettled, and his standard black tabards only heightened the lethal prowess of his figure.

Maybe war changed him and made him look more like a weapon than a man, or maybe in his absence Obi-Wan forgot that Anakin moved with a power greater than his own limbs. Gone were the days of a lanky, bright eyed Padawan, who sprouted up too fast for either his Master or his own muscles to keep up with. Growing pains, new tunics every week, a body that was all height and no substance, he once looked rather coltish and absurd, especially because he flipped between glowering petulance and overjoyed enthusiasm at a moments notice. 

Clearly enough, all remains of that physical awkwardness, time or war of maturity stole away. This was a man, a Jedi, and a general, with his own Padawan that he faced, both their sabers now lit up between them.

Obi-Wan tried not to stare, tried to pretend his attention wasn’t wholly taken up by Anakin’s arrival— 

“Well,” Obi-Wan sighed and scrubbed a hand across his beard. “Even  _ if _ I lost the planet, your students still ask about me. Perhaps you tell too many stories. It’s a wonder they’ve learned anything at all.” 

“Hmm, forgot, I did, that Qui-Gon’s attitude you have.” The gimer stick tapped twice on the floor with no particular purpose as the Master shifted. He stilled a hand on Obi-Wan’s side that conveyed  _ I must leave, do not follow _ . Contentment hummed between them in the Force. Master Yoda was all he had left of his elders in their line— both Dooku and Qui-Gon lost to time and the return of the Sith. In this, there was some bond that could never be broken, more than affection and pride, for it tangled with tremendous sadness and loss as well. Yoda meant it as both a compliment and chastisement, for after all in his eyes Obi-Wan would always be some youngling out of his depth. Just Qui-Gon’s reckless Padawan, overflowing with attachment and anger and a determination to prove himself. Despite how endearingly he brought up the memory of old Qui-Gon, facing the Council with sheer will and stubbornness, something heavy dropped into his stomach. 

The war took so much, but it began reaching out and taking long before it ever began. 

Yoda moved slowly back across the dojo, stopping to tease or nod to his students. Obi-Wan noticed students try harder under the old Grand Master’s watchful eyes, an eagerness to show off, to amount to something. He hoped they did not perform similarly in his presence. He did not deserve it. 

“Master Obi-Wan!” 

With his former Master on his mind, he also recalled the frequent admonishments to  _ Stay in the moment, in the present _ above all things— and he still struggled to do so. Always he slipped into his own thoughts, his own concerns, and they dragged him so far from those who surrounded him, whose presence and whose memories enriched his life if only he would let them. 

Face lined with distant sadness that he tried to conceal with patience and expectation - how he expected a dutiful Grand Master to appear - Obi-Wan nodded. One of the older students waved for his attention and he approached, granting it gladly. 

“Master Windu said…” the child began, and together with her companion they demonstrated what they were learning and class. They swept through clean, well practiced formations. Neat, but not perfected. Familiar but not yet natural. Promise on the cusp of greatness. And he watched and listened and provided pointers when they asked, and he pointedly kept his eyes from straying across the room to where a cosmos was born in awesome sparks of star matter with whirling arcs of blue and gold wrapped in black leather and coarse weave. No, he focused only on the students begging his advice. He kneeled and guided and demonstrated stances, determined not to flush under their eager gazes. 

And when they were satisfied, and became suddenly bashful of his attention, another young Jedi called out for him. Another group of hopeful students who wanted his wondrous help in their training— he went from group to group, one child to the next, straightening backs and postures and correcting saber grips and promising in hushed, conspiratorial whispers (which were always returned with poorly suppressed giggles hidden behind hands) that in the end, the Force would guide them and they should trust in it above all things. 

Family— that’s what the Order was. Hope and guidance, their shared experiences both with and through the Force. To say even one slightly meaningful or impactful thing to any one of the children who called for his aid would serve a lifelong purpose; to achieve that in even the smallest capacity almost made up for every mundane suffering. 

Surely that fulfillment made a great brightness swell in his chest, surely nothing else made his blood pump faster, made him more aware of his body, of his posture. Surely it was this  _ purpose _ , and not the growing closeness, the gravitational pull to a sun that shone ever nearer, for he moved across the room guided not just by it but by the constant attentions of Jedi children. He could ignore them as easily as he could ignore the anchoring this irritating, undeniable,  _ insatiable  _ sun tethered into the very core of his own being. Surely he retained complete control of himself as he found his feet carried him eventually, inevitably to the sparring mat of Anakin Skywalker and his Padawan. 

Ahsoka practiced with full confidence but loose control— sometimes she slid out of her landings, graceful but not precise, or she swung her back hand too much to avoid slicing herself on her primary saber. Despite the flaws, she worked a sweat out of her Master, who moved around her with visible intensity, his singular blue saber clashing and teasing hers. He provoked her rather than guided her. He wanted to push her, annoy her, make her lose her balance and exploit the flaws of her immaturity. 

Finally she groaned, pushing back his crushing blow with both her sabers and all of her strength. In a quick moment she flicked off both her sabers and pressed her fists to her face, “Yeah I  _ know, _ Skyguy so don’t even say it!” 

Anakin flashed a quick smile, but it vanished in an instant. He breathed slow, controlling himself, then powered off his saber and started removing his tabards. In all the time Obi-Wan helped half the dojo with their exercises, the two of them maintained the same fight and it left them both strained, even if neither wanted to show it. 

“Then we’ll go again,” Anakin stated, stretching his neck to earn a series of low pops. He bounced on his feet, not like his blood needed much motivation to pump faster and warm his already primed muscles. 

Her hands dropped and for a quick flash her eyes shone dangerously with anger. All the anger - or immense frustration, rather - clearly pointed at Anakin, but she looked beyond him and brightened. “Master Obi-Wan!” Anakin whipped around, his own eyes wide and Obi-Wan felt the intense gaze of them sweeping his body. Months separated their meetings, and even a brief moment together on Tatooine some weeks - weeks or months, he actually could not say - ago did nothing to compensate for the gaping rift it left in their bond. 

Ahsoka bounded forward, saber-clenching fists propped on her hips in a show of complete disregard for her Master and his expectations. “I’ve asked Skywalker to teach me Jar’Kai but all he’s doing is beating me and  _ saying _ nothing.” She added the critique with a little dissatisfied eye roll. 

Obi-Wan nodded and tried not to let his amusement show.  _ Skyguy? _ It took biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a grin. Anakin moved barely closer, face drawn severe. Obi-Wan found no comfort in such a cold reception from his former Padawan and that alone did enough to sober his feelings. He easily then found the more wise and suiting words her plea required, “Do you doubt  _ Master  _ Skywalker’s teaching?” 

Yet Ahsoka did not drop her defiance so easily. She shifted, growing more defensive, arms coming to cross over her chest instead. “No, not  _ generally _ . I’m lucky to have him as my Master,” she admitted and Obi-Wan sensed all the genuine, red-hot pride in her answer. “But-“ she faltered, some of her age and innocence showing. “I just want to understand it.”

“Of course,” he agreed and motioned for her to get back on the mat. Hesitantly, she did, and relit her sabers with a curious glance. From the sidelines he nodded. 

“Jar’Kai is quite an advanced form,” he intoned as she slipped into a ready stance. “It relies on not only a strong awareness of your surroundings with little room for error, but good enough fundamentals in all other forms so that you are not reliant on the idea that two sabers are automatically better than one.” 

With another beckoning motion, the two began a slow rotation around the mat, both waiting to strike and begin their round anew. Obi-Wan watched them and noticed that Ahsoka stood more sure of herself, more determined to prove she could manage this. 

“So you must not rely on your second blade. If you lose it will you fail, will you be lesser?” She made the first move- hardly surprising. So early on, her blow teased and promised agile attacks yet Anakin met it easily. “If you cannot prove the point of wielding two lightsabers, if you cannot find the  _ advantages  _ of the form, then there is no use to it at all.” 

She danced back, stalking around her almost stationary Master whose blade spun in a show of perfect arcs. “So the question is, why must  _ you  _ fight with two sabers?” 

He recalled Qui-Gon’s training him in the same form. Obi-Wan never understood the appeal of it. The second saber was, to him, clunky and useless. He could never bring himself to find it a natural part of his attacks, it only ever made him wary and overly defensive in compensation. Yet all Jedi trained in it to some extent. He saw quite clearly Ahsoka’s intent to master it. 

Some awareness dawned on her face, her lip curled up and she lunged again striking with greater force and precision. Anakin took a step back to properly defend, so for once she gained ground, and she knew it. 

“You cannot win by power alone,” Obi-Wan advised, knowing that with continued enough practice of moves like that, Ahsoka could deal shattering strikes with the combined might of those two lightsabers. “But your opponent might. You can only stop his swings with both of your lightsabers, which leaves you little room to push him off you.”

In a perfect demonstration, Anakin landed a hefty overhead blow that left them locked together, her two emerald blades crossed and his cerulean one cut right into the crux of them. Moving either arm jeopardized her defense, either by leaving her front exposed in an already risky attempt to shove him off — 

Obi-Wan considered the possibility of it and knew the results. An exposed front, a red Sith blade, the damage it did by taking advantage and plunging through clean Jedi robes, his own voice strained, crying out as he watched it all through a shield of crimson. No, that move risked too much. She could not expose her front. 

But she did not have the strength in just one arm to match the unstoppable force of Anakin’s entire weight. He could spend all day throwing everything into each blow and every time he would win. 

Obi-Wan stopped pacing around them. The air hummed with anticipation - hers, his, Anakin’s, and the building stares of those who watched. “It’s about  _ balance _ , Ahsoka. It’s always about balance. You cannot overpower him so you must find another way. Two sabers are like two suns, or like the Force itself. There’s light and dark. When you fight with two, you cannot choose  _ one _ sword,  _ one _ arm,  _ one _ method,  _ one _ attack—“ he felt the Force like a great hand pressing into him, and he watched eagerly. Her arms quaked under the continued onslaught, neither her nor Anakin relented. 

So she found a weakness they both knew Anakin to have— she spun out of the hold by moving against his body weight and sending him stumbling forward. It freed her only barely, but staggered them both enough to keep her safe. Her pride exploded out and leapt right back into her ready stance. “I get it!” She cheered and did not back down from another blow. 

She spun and struck with both blades so Anakin had no choice to defend- another first. She grinned not with undeserved pride, but with childish excitement. 

The Force surrounded her, and every moment began to pulse with her new confidence. Like extensions of herself, she found a better grip and wielded them not like two separate objects but like one united part of herself. Still, she was young, and stumbled under Anakin’s more refined movements, but now she watched and learned from herself as much as from him. 

And when he next knocked one saber from her hand, she accommodated beautifully with just one, fending him off but relenting. She powered hers off and accepted her defeat without forcing Anakin to beat her into submission once more. 

“I get it!” She repeated, face broken by a massive grin. Her face blotched with sweat and exertion, and she panted but wanted her words out too desperately. “Thank you, Master Obi-Wan—“

Rather guiltily, but still eager, she turned to Anakin, “And thank  _ you,  _ Master.”

He punched her shoulder and said something Obi-Wan did not make out, but she flushed with pride. 

While she retrieved her abandoned other hilt, Anakin stepped off the mat at his former Master’s side. He smelt faintly of sweat, barely showing any of the exhaustion Ahsoka revealed all the more obviously; only slightly in the barely damp curls at the nape of his neck, a brightness in his eyes, a faint hitch in his breathing- even altogether not very revealing evidence. Only Obi-Wan knew better. Another sort of weariness darkened Anakin’s eyes, and another sort of strain tightened his shoulders. 

“You don’t know anything about Jar’kai,” Obi-Wan stated, only loud enough for his companion and not the Togruta to hear. “It seems an odd choice to train her in.”

Anakin shrugged, for a moment saying nothing. It made Obi-Wan’s concern rear its head— where was his former Padawan, once so exuberant around him? Was this how others always saw him, more stoic and unsure— a reservation to him that never once graced his Padawanship?

Finally, he spoke, though his eyes followed her and did not meet Obi-Wan’s questioning look. “I don’t think it’s fair for her not to learn it just because I don’t know it. Besides, she uses a reverse grip even with one saber. With two… it should correct the problems she has in her defense.”

Obi-Wan blinked— he noticed the peculiar grip but thought little of it. Though from Anakin the remark proved not just insightful, but  _ wise _ . Obi-Wan doubted he could have come to the same conclusion, that he could have realized as rightly as Anakin did that Ahsoka’s desire to push herself to a needlessly complicated Form could easily strengthen her current weaknesses and build confidence to make up for the rest. 

Once more he looked at his former Padawan, grown so far beyond his years and knew he should not be surprised at all. Anakin, with his fixation on finding and fixing things, with his one track mind and remarkable intelligence, with an unrivaled power in the Force and a determination to see and find the best in people, logically-  _ obviously _ found such a solution for his newly appointed Padawan. 

“Yet rather than teach her you decided to…” Obi-Wan waved a hand, “torture her first?”

And that earned him a small but delightful smile. He wanted to see it again, wanted it to last longer to make up for all the time it escaped him. “She’s good, she’s just stubborn. She needed to see the flaws first…” he trailed as the Padawan in question bobbed back towards them, looking both tired and rejuvenated. Obi-Wan did not envy Anakin for he no longer had the energy to keep up with a young learner’s every need. He barely survived the first one. 

She approached excitedly, opened and then shut her mouth without saying anything yet, then some anxiety slowly dawned on her face, a mild embarrassment to precede her question. “Master...s, I was wondering if maybe, you know, I might benefit from seeing  _ you _ spar. As a way to study!” Her eyes grew so bright and pleading and while Anakin shook his head, Obi-Wan fought a smile. 

“I’m not sure there is much either of us could show you with Jar’Kai, I’m quite out of practice,” he admitted, hoping to spare Anakin the embarrassment of admitting it, but Ahsoka shook her head. 

Her lekku bobbed, “No! It doesn’t have to be in Jar’Kai! Some of the older Padawan were talking and said that when you two fight it’s like…” she frowned as she struggled for her words but Obi-Wan waved a hand. 

A  _ hero _ — that’s what Yoda said. It displeased him, he didn’t deserve it, didn’t  _ want  _ it. Equally, he did not wish to know what praise she might pile onto that feeling. If there was anything remarkable about his training with Anakin, it all reflected on the latter, not himself. Another polite refusal readied itself but before he could voice it, Anakin scoffed 

“Come on, Snips, Obi-Wan is  _ Grand Master  _ now. He’s too old—“

“Now wait a moment,” said Grand Master tried to cut in,

“And  _ way  _ too out of practice to fight me.” He caught Anakin’s smug grin and Ahsoka’s squinting skepticism. “He said it himself, so let’s just leave him to his tea and dejarik games with Master Yoda.” 

Obi-Wan frowned. He did not intend to be bullied or teased by Anakin at this point or ever, and even held a strict personal policy  _ against _ conceding to such taunts, but he could not recall when he last locked blades with Anakin. Not since before all of this— and something in him missed the familiarity of it. The constants of meeting him blot for blow, of always finding him in the Force, perfectly matched after a decade of growing by one another’s sides. He did not itch to prove Anakin wrong, no, just the idea of being close to him again grew irresistible all on its own. 

“If I did not know better, I would say you sound scared to lose, Anakin.” He chided, raising a brow and meeting the perfectly satisfied look on the taller Jedi’s face. 

“Then it’s a good thing you know better,  _ Master _ .”

Ahsoka was not forgotten, per say, but her presence and those of everyone else in the dojo were greatly diminished as their bond sparked between them, unspoken but sure. They passed no more words between them as Anakin found his spot on one end of the mat and Obi-Wan on the other. 

The Grand Master discarded his robe, tossing it just beyond their space’s boundary, and he unclipped his saber. This saber which he made to replace the old one, yet remained barely used. Were he in battle like all the rest of the Order, he would rely on it almost singularly, yet in his present duties, sometimes the thing felt silly. It belonged to a knight, to a  _ warrior _ , and those things he was in name alone. 

It powered on, surging to life at the same time as Anakin’s- twin blades and twin eyes of blue staring each other down from opposite ends. His blood pumped, ringing in his ears, and then he smiled. 

“I’m afraid you have quite the advantage. I haven’t had time to warm up.”He swung his saber so it circled at his side, loosening his wrist. 

“What, afraid you aren’t up to the challenge old man?” 

Anakin did not hesitate as he struck first— always impatient, always seeking danger out, never waiting. All too quickly they locked together, lightsabers crossed between their chests. 

“Old man?” Obi-Wan huffed and knocked Anakin out of the stance. “I believe I taught you to have a little more respect for your elders than that.”

Anakin grinned, though Obi-Wan could not sense why. They were matched, and their fight only just begun. A few more strikes they bounced off one another, elegant twirls and spins more for show than damage. It did nothing but warm Obi-Wan, prepared him for an onslaught that knowing Anakin, surely loomed. 

But it came earlier than expected and he staggered to catch the overhand blow, “Is that what you are? My  _ elder _ ?” 

Obi-Wan’s confusion echoed into the Force— of course he was, not only for being years Anakin’s senior but as his former Master—

“The great,  _ Grand Master Kenobi _ .” It sounded almost a sneer, yet at the same time, oddly a sigh. A caress lightly breathed over the barely exposed skin of Obi-Wan’s throat. 

So once more he forced Anakin back and made sure to land the next mark. He kicked out and sent Anakin tumbling across the floor,  _ laughing  _ of all things, even as Obi-Wan granted him no time to recover and struck down from above. And Anakin laying prone, yet infallible, blocked him perfectly. 

Already the match overdid him, he panted as they locked together, staggered between Anakin’s splayed legs. Eons could have passed, the two of them stationary and equal, Obi-Wan confused and unforgiving but Anakin overly eager and pulsing with anticipation. 

Obi-Wan felt the Force rising up like hands over his skin and clothes, from his calves up his knees and thighs, skimming over his waistband and his belt until they pressed, solid, against his chest. It was Anakin, and he knew it like his own flesh, and feared it like the dark side all the same before it hurled him back. 

It could have launched him across the room, yet it only pushed hard enough to send him skidding over the mat, allowing Anakin to stand up. Both their blades spun in unison. 

Anakin did not fight with this intensity with Ahsoka, or ever before if Obi-Wan’s memory served. Not even against Dooku, though then that heat in his veins warned of a different danger, the end of either of their lives and the threat and hope of a war to end before it began. Now Anakin, streamlined, battle-honed, moved with a different and formidable ease. They knew one another too well though, and for all it astounded Obi-Wan, they met once again with sabers blocked, neither gaining an upper hand. 

Obi-Wan felt eyes, felt others’ expectation in the Force. Ahsoka’s was a growing familiarity, the Padawan of his Padawan, like a daughter if he ever had one, or at least he hoped to know her as such. Bitterly he could not expect or hope for anything. But other eyes as well, others who pried into this match that with every moment only felt more intimate to Obi-Wan. Anakin behaved as though none could see them and Obi-Wan grew all the more aware of the public nature of their performance because of it.

Anakin grinned, laughed, found another opportunity to press close and pant hot against Obi-Wan’s face. This wasn’t a training demonstration for his Padawan but Obi-Wan didn’t know what it was. 

He attempted a glancing blow yet Anakin not only met it, but caught Obi-Wan’s wrist. Anakin spun and sent the jab shooting uselessly past his body. His left hand grabbed Obi-Wan’s wrist so they twisted, backs pressed to one another before the Grand Master could break the grip with his other hand and separate them. Yet all it did was bring them closer, another clash of sabers between their chests and barely an inch of space between them. 

It was like Anakin fought to kill, yet Obi-Wan could not believe that now or ever. Nothing could ever create such hate between them, never create a desire to bring harm where there was only familiarity, an intimacy beyond anything Obi-Wan ever knew. So such determination worried him, and for all the confusion that he sent out into their bond, Anakin only answered it with more passion, more shattering blows. 

Anakin looked at him, very little but the cross of their weapons hissing between them provided a distance between their faces. How much war changed him, and Obi-Wan, despite his desire not to, stared at the scar along Anakin’s cheekbone. Anakin’s jaw clenched and Obi-Wan could only notice the dark of his eyes and how it reflected the blue of their blades. 

“You cut your hair.”

Obi-Wan let go and found his ground away from Anakin, out of his reach, away from the burn of his gaze. “ _ What _ —“

Anakin shrugged in a loose roll of his shoulders. Their fighting shook Obi-Wan’s disarrayed strands into his face, hanging annoyingly down into his vision. “Surely it didn’t take all this just for you to notice.”

“No,” Anakin’s grin stretched wide again. Too many of his teeth showed, and Obi-Wan burned too hot in his own skin. “Noticed it as soon as I saw you.” They both whirled forward again, so quickly this time that anyone watching could not decide who attacked and who blocked. 

When Anakin first learned his lightsaber training, he focused, got angry when he couldn’t understand something, and lashed out with too much power and no precision. Then he grew up a little and tried to get the better of his Master in a different way: talking. Distraction, subversion, Anakin as a young teenager tried his hardest to  _ annoy _ Obi-Wan into giving way. 

Finally, Obi-Wan’s concern melted into amusement— ridiculous fond understanding rose up in his chest and came out as a laugh, throaty and raw. 

“I thought I taught you years ago that you can’t talk your way through a fight.” 

Obi-Wan advanced and together they matched one, two, three, then half a dozen blows, meeting beat by beat in perfectly synchronized steps. 

“Guess you’ll just have to teach me again.” 

“Oh come on, you’ve always been too stubborn for that. I hoped a Padawan of your own might make you realize how hard it is to be a Master,  _ yours  _ especially.” Whirling, slashing, meeting, both of them grinning, chasing one another across the mat. The Force sang around them, a tremendous symphony that professed  _ Grand Master _ and  _ Chosen One _ with equal reverence over and over, cascading echoes with each scattering of sparks when the twin blades clashed. 

Perfectly matched, more so than either of them realized. Two hearts bleeding with the same passion. 

But even their fight could not last forever— and one of them held not only seniority, but a superior mastery of this art form that no amount of the other’s abundant passion could make up for. In the end, Obi-Wan was  _ stronger _ in all aspects, but this again was a thing he could not realize. 

Sweat dripped down his neck, he felt it over every inch of his skin, hidden and soaking into the layers of his tunic, and he saw it matting Anakin’s hair to his forehead and making his face flush with exertion. Bright eyes, warmed cheeks, but exhaustion strung between both of them and Obi-Wan forced back the next blow with as much strength as he could muster. 

Anakin’s footing grew sloppy and he stumbled under two more brutal swings. 

“Yield.”

“Never.”

“ _ Anakin—“  _ The Grand Master hacked down again and even as Anakin sank he grinned and did not relent. 

Almost shaken to his knees, Anakin bowed under Obi-Wan’s strikes, losing ground more and more with each second. “ _ Yield _ .” He demanded once more. 

And Anakin breathed out, losing air too quickly, heart racing, “ _ No.” _

Obi-Wan’s brow furrowed and Anakin only caught a half second of warning from the Force before he fell back. His former Master struck with a power undoubtedly aided by that great gift bestowed upon them both. It surged out of him unintentionally but left Anakin on his back, saber at his side, finally accepting defeat; the relief of that overruled any realization on Obi-Wan’s part of the importance of his final move. 

He panted and not waiting any longer, powered off his lightsaber. His breath came out in a huff, half a laugh, half a groan, then he sank down to sit on the mat. Anakin lay unmoving as at his side, Obi-Wan wiped the sweat on his own face with his sleeve and grimaced. 

“I don’t know how I kept up with you for years. I’m afraid my muscles will ache for a few days at least.” He sighed out a sharp breath, dragging his knee up to rest against it though flopping back like Anakin would really be most comfortable. His duties left him little time to exert himself like this, and going through meditations and katas hardly provided a comparable thrill. No, he hadn’t pushed like that since Geonosis— and even those efforts fell flat under Dooku’s superior fighting. 

“Good.” Anakin stated, voice breathless and strained as he stared up at the dojo’s ceiling. If it were not for the frantic but steadying rise and fall of his chest, Obi-Wan would wonder if he were still alive. His extinguished saber rolled out of his hand and he made no move to grab it or sit up in any more dignified posture. 

Quiet reclaimed the space between them, the Force settled like an abating storm, and their onlookers fell back into their own training. Anakin found it within himself to move, but only peered over at his Padawan, who talked excitedly with Barriss. 

Words itched under Obi-Wan’s skin— he wanted to speak, but didn’t know what to say. He was glad to see Anakin, but not glad to be sweaty and tired. He wasn’t glad to remember this could only be a small reunion and soon enough Anakin would be sent off on some new mission— worse, as Grand Master,  _ his  _ orders would send Anakin away. 

Anakin’s voice broke through those worries. “It suits you.”

Obi-Wan frowned. His former Padawan still looked up, eyes dead set on nothingness. “What?”

Anakin paused, as if swallowing a first answer and opting for a second that though still true, wasn’t what he really wanted. Instead, he managed a brief smile and his eyes finally darted so Obi-Wan caught a glimpse of deep blue. “The hair.”

Self consciously, he reached a hand to card through the now short cut hair at the back of his head. It looked neater, more respectable. He warned Anakin he might, in that moment in the fresher after his knighting. 

“I know you’re worried about everything but… you’re doing great. Besides, you did a better job helping my Padawan than I did.” Anakin continued. Only in looking at him again did Obi-Wan find those eyes never left him, and seemed to stare right into his heart, or deeper even, past the corporeal entirely and into his soul and Force signature. 

Despite the raw, cut open effect of Anakin’s gaze, Obi-Wan collected himself. Standing, he ignored how his tunics and trousers stuck to him. “Simply a matter of more practice.” He stated, and extended a hand for Anakin to get up. 

Leather met flesh and Anakin righted himself with a strength Obi-Wan had forgotten— no, a strength he never familiarized himself with in the first place. In the whole of their fight, he didn’t notice a difference at all in the movements or proficiency of Anakin’s right hand. 

He swallowed, remembering the only other proof he had of it’s unintended strength. Mechno fingers brushing just under his ear, grasping, tangling— 

Louder than he meant to, Obi-Wan started, “I see your arm has turned out well. There haven’t been any problems?”

Anakin shook his head, but frowned and pulled his hand back safely to his own side, the tether between them severed. He did not look at anything but the offending hand as he spoke softly, “I remember... pain. The electricity from Dooku. It shocked so much it was cold in my body.”

He then huffed a grim laugh. “I know heat, I grew up surrounded by it. As much as Tatooine and sand and…” His hand closed into a fist. “There’s a lot I don’t like about heat but the cold was worse. Like ice stabbing through me, and it was  _ everywhere _ . It’s the worst feeling ever, like the Force is empty, and his darkness was taking over. And if there was any warmth at all, it was me and it was  _ my _ anger. That’s why I kept fighting and then— when he cut my arm off it all went away. Not even cold and empty just... nothing. A void. It’s worse than that— like dying maybe, but I wouldn’t know.”

Obi-Wan waited for something else, but Anakin ended there. He clipped his saber back at his side with mechanical movements, found his tabards again and pulled them on, covering himself like he could smother those words and hide everything just said and done. 

“Come on,” Anakin nodded his head for Obi-Wan to join him, to leave the dojo. “Ahsoka has work she needs to be doing,” he pitched his voice and stared pointedly at the Togruta, who made a disappointed face but her shoulders slumped in defeat. Then he turned his attention back to his friend, “I’ve got something to show you.”

Obi-Wan did not raise a complaint as he followed Anakin out into the halls of the Temple, and he found comfort in not walking alone. He expected them to stop at any number of locations and his curiosity grew as he could finally tell Anakin led them not to some part of the Jedi complex, but to the GAR hangar. 

“Anakin, what—“

“I didn’t bring you here to inspect a cruiser or a battalion so just relax,” he flashed a quick smirk and looked once again the pod-racing boy from Tatooine. Yet something  _ more  _ crept behind his eyes, older, battle worn, darker even. A certain not so innocent glint— both teasing and knowing. 

Anakin turned straight again and led them under the overhangs of star destroyers, through crates of supplies and endless spare mech parts. 

They passed too many clones for Obi-Wan to count, bearing colors and patterns to rival the ornamentation of the Temple walls. “Sir.” One voice called out over the din of a thriving war machine. 

Anakin whipped to see the clone who called him, and grinned. Obi-Wan followed as they turned to greet two men somewhat apart from the rest; the one marked in blue, though his face remained serious, shone happy confusion at the sight of the Jedi. “I thought you were allowed time at the Temple, Sir.” 

Obi-Wan had little personal interaction with any of the clones. Shaak Ti oversaw operations on Kamino and while he and Mace approved various deployments, it paled in comparison to the experiences of any Jedi actually out on the field. In his head he could only see their genetic source, the bounty hunter he chased to that stormy planet, a first domino in the cascade of galactic peril. 

Yet seeing these two now, just two out of so many - thousands, millions, billions, more than that, he knew, yet to quantify their lives always left him reeling and feeling ill - promised that not a single one was the same. While both the trooper and Anakin remained ever the picture of military sophistication, their body language revealed an astounding closeness. A brotherhood only matched by the clones’ natural bond with each and every one of his siblings. 

“Obi-Wan, this is Captain Rex, of the 501st, and Commander Cody, of the 212th.” Anakin pointed out each man in kind and they greeted him with “General, Sir.” nodded in unison. 

And of course Obi-Wan  _ knew _ that he held that title the same as other Jedi— he was officially not just  _ a  _ General, but a High General. He considered himself so separate for their duties, and never had it been so clearly pointed at him that it genuinely shocked him. 

He forgot decorum, it startled him so deeply. Worse, it created fear in him, fear of his titles too numerous and weighty, that his tongue moved faster than his reason and he smiled painfully, “It’s just Obi-Wan. We are not here on duty, so at ease.” Rex granted him a polite smile at that, but Cody’s face drew into not quite a frown, but something more focused and severe- made all the more serious from the effect of the scar stretching down one side of his face, curving from temple to cheekbone. 

Anakin’s features, for once, softened a little. He looked almost at peace, or at least distracted by some other thoughts. “I brought Master Obi-Wan down to show him something on the ship, so no worries, Rex. You and the boys can have fun at 79’s for a few more nights.” He nodded and went back to leading Obi-Wan across the hangar. 

“79’s?”Obi-Wan questioned once a few paces separated them and the men. 

“A clone bar. Nice place for them to relax. Just some cantina of course,” Anakin took them through the port of the  _ Resolute.  _ It expanded seemingly endless around them, it’s halls stretching so their footsteps echoed. Obi-Wan let himself get distracted by the loneliness of it that he almost missed Anakin saying, “But of course, you know all about letting loose in some low level cantina.”

“I’ve never—“

Anakin scanned a door and it’s confirmation beep and whoosh open cut off Obi-Wan’s defense. Though he felt some amusement humming in Anakin’s signature, a dismissive but pleased  _ Of course not.  _ The smooth plates of durasteel exposed a compact apartment, clearly the General’s personal room while on missions. On the available surfaces laid a mix of impersonal data and strategic plans, and as always with any room Anakin occupied, mechanical parts. 

Obi-Wan lingered in the doorway. Dried sweat still sat tacky on his skin and he knew Anakin fared worse. “Might you tell me what you’ve brought me here for? I’m almost growing concerned.”

Anakin stooped and retrieved a box from under his bunk and took the time to shoot his former Master a wry little look. “I thought you were supposed to be patient.”

“I’ve learned caution as well as patience.”

Anakin rolled his eyes and lifted the lid. From inside a well padded interior, he pulled out - and of all the things Obi-Wan could have guessed this whole adventure was about, this certainly wasn’t it - another prosthetic. It looked somewhere between the first model made by the Jedi healers and his current version— sleek and black with more visible power than a flesh limb, but less exposed wire. Though, Anakin solved that fault which Obi-Wan pointed out so long ago with a glove. The supple and flawless leather covered his arm perfectly and any stranger would not assume anything other than skin, sinew, and bone lay underneath. 

“I’ll always have an extra, in case anything happens. I’ve done everything so it should never short circuit, even under sand or water or anything. But just in case, there’s this one. It’s a little less sensitive, but that doesn’t matter when I’m fighting.” Anakin slipped it back in it’s secure hold. Sitting on the bunk still, he continued heedless of Obi-Wan’s desire to speak. 

“And I’ve given Kix a whole scan of how it works and my modifications and all of that. I can show you medbay too because even Master Che is satisfied -  _ more  _ than satisfied with how the ship’s are outfitted.”

Obi-Wan frowned, a single laugh escaping in his incredulity, “Anakin, you could not have told me any of this without dragging me all the way down here?”

“I know I could have just told you,” Anakin practically pouted, though it conflicted with the rest of his demeanor when he stood up again. Too tall to pout, too well defined and domineering to resemble the naive boy he once was. He needn’t do anything to take over all available space with his presence. “But I figured I could show you, so you’d really believe me.  _ I’m  _ fine, Obi-Wan.”

Some implication - hardly subtle - hung there that Obi-Wan pushed aside. He spent all his time avoiding it and would not consent to being cornered now just because Anakin had isolated them in this ship together. Exhaustion tugged harder at his limbs, emptiness sank in his stomach, and if he let it, every part of his body would cry out in slow protest. Not doing any of the things he should to take care of himself and he knew it, too practical and organized to not notice. No, he knew all too well how he slipped. If he really wanted to indulge, he could probably count back the days since he last slept decent hours, count back to his last full meal, to his last complete meditation. 

“Besides,” Anakin sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “the Chancellor said if I ever need anything, I only have to ask. And even Padmé said she can have Naboo’s engineers run through the schematics but… well, she realized I probably know more than all of them combined, or something.” He glanced at Obi-Wan sheepishly, looking almost like the man he only half knew any more. 

“I’m glad you have such support,” his voice sounded hollow, even to himself. Padmé and the Chancellor… silly of him to think he could provide anything else. “Forgive me for worrying. You did return from one of your very first missions with that scar after all.” And then of course, he refused to tell Obi-Wan just how he managed it.

Anakin found less humor in that memory, for not even an amiable smile passed his face. “I’m fine.” And there was that thunderous implication again. Anakin’s eyes traced his face, over new lines, over new signs of stress and the little ways Obi-Wan changed. At least time hewed Anakin with strength and fortitude. Obi-Wan only felt himself withering away. 

“As am I.”

“Great. Now say that again without looking ready to pass out.”

“Anakin—“

“No, I mean it. At this rate you’ll look like Yoda within a year. You’ll look like an eight hundred year old toad before you’re forty. Is that what you want? Because you barely look like you’re going to make it that far anyway.” 

Obi-Wan sighed and stared pointedly at the wall over Anakin’s shoulders. He wanted to scold him for the insults to Yoda but knew Anakin didn’t mean them anyway— his point was to chastise  _ Obi-Wan.  _ He could not bear to look at Anakin’s eyes or his face at all, could not face the frown or concern or whatever lay there. “Are you done?”

“No.” Anakin replied all too quickly. Hot anger crackled in the Force, a quick glimpse into a rampage brewing. He did not elaborate, the seconds stretched and his jaw tensed. 

With guilt tugging in the pit of his stomach, Obi-Wan recalled a promise made in the clinical light of the Halls of Healing, a promise to a crying, tear stained Padawan. A promise not to shut him out. And those other words—

_ Don’t ask me not to care. Anything but that.  _

He could hear them as clearly as if Anakin shouted them into their bond even now, or breathed them low right into his skin, the words like a brand in his memory. 

He did not know how long they stood like that, or beyond that how long since their battle first began. Did it begin in their first meeting on Tatooine, or was it isolated to today, to their reunion of the training mat when Anakin teased and tried to gain the upper hand? And now he tried again, with his anger, with his shameless  _ righteousness _ , that he should be some protector. 

But it was Obi-Wan who carried the title that made him protector to the whole Order. Leader, Master, Teacher, and in cruel addition the face and name for the galaxy to recognize as they plunged further into a complicated and unwelcome spotlight. 

_ Don’t ask me not to care. _

Obi-Wan’s hand clenched where it gripped his own arm. “Let’s get back to the Temple. I would like to wash this sweat off and change robes.” He stated plainly, asking for neither permission nor forgiveness. Not that he needed them. Grand Master Kenobi, as Anakin pointed out. Entirely on his own. Even as Anakin jerkily nodded and their footsteps fell in sync through the barreling hallways, he felt alone. 

_ Anything but that. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha so in one of old notes I said this fic would probably be 80k... turns out that will be more like 100k at the very least. While I did WANT that, ideally, when I started writing, I didn’t think I would actually be able to do it. I now have the entire fic planned out and 😳 It’s definitely the longest thing I’ve written.

It burned, scalded his skin. He watched it turn from too pale to pink, reddening continually under the torrents. Steam filled the air so much it deprived it of oxygen, stifled him and he wanted to drown in it. Hot, simmering moisture could breach his lungs if he only tilted his head back, open mouthed and swallowed down— it could choke him if he let it. Lungs constricted, and he gasped, panting, arm braced against the tile wall made slick and cool by condensation. Ice under his fingertips, it felt unreal, like he could press harder and shatter his hand through the synthetic, perfectly factory reproduced little tiles, each one exactly the same, and each one unfamiliar under his touch. Fragile and impersonal; his fingers skidded between the cracks, nails digging in and sending chills through him that the water quickly beat back down. 

He ached and the shower hurt him in return, an answering brutalization for the pounding in his head, for the throbbing behind his lungs and the itch under his skin— his raw skin which felt barely his own, like leather wrapped about him and he was trying to burn it away. Let it rot and melt off him. Distantly, he heard the echoes of a sad voice telling him to stop, the calling of his own self pity, able to step back and look at the scene and watch it for the pathetic display it was. Yet he couldn’t lift his hand or summon the Force to turn the temperature even a notch lower. 

So it pounded away on his back, unrelenting, as he slipped lower and sat on the floor of the shower. 

Water dripped down his nose, plastered his hair to his head, and in rivulets streamed from beard and neck and arms all the way down his body, pooling slightly before eventually finishing the journey to the drain. He then sunk lower, pressing his head to the ground so the streams almost ran up his nose but he coughed and sputtered them away, breathing open mouthed and gasping. Still, he rested his head to the floor, so its touch cooled his fevered skin. 

A sonic would have been easier, would have been over with quickly and he’d have pulled on his robes once more, exactly the same as before. He could not say what drove him to strip in a slow process, scattering clothes through his room from the door all the way to the fresher. He could not say what made him opt for water instead of impersonal, barely felt vibrations of a sonic. He let the water erode him, like needles in that first gush, precisely jamming against his skin and muscle. 

His body drifted, a foreign entity to his own mind, an unfamiliar thing not even worth studying or welcoming. After years of training he’d grown into a fine Knight, but a useless one. A knight not in service, a warrior not at war. He might as well wash down the drain like all of the water for all the good he did. His body only served to move him about. Crude matter to service the Grand Master Kenobi from one room in the Temple to the next - from Council chambers to meditation gardens to the crèche to the training salles to his own room, and then out once more to meet the Chancellor, to see the people the Order fought so hard to protect. 

It - the pain, the heat, the overbearing sensation - could perhaps suppress the Force, always pushing into his head and making him  _ feel _ more than he could stand. It connected everyone in thin, perfect little strands, tying each Jedi together, each being strung with the Living Force.

So when someone died, passed on into the beyond and became greater than they could ever achieve when limited to their physical body - a mindset Yoda emphasized in each meditation session - he blew him away with crushing severity. Their loss, their final pain, or final acceptance. He sensed it always, this growing darkness. Here at the peak, he could not avoid it, the coming-home surges of  _ death _ — another Jedi, another clone, another civilian, another planet enslaved, lost, saved, returned to neutrality, more droids programmed to kill and tossed aside like toys, more clones ordered, more Jedi gaining more command. 

Names, faces, those who he knew, those who comprised his family. Like Eeth Koth, captured, forced off of the High Council, and then left the Order entirely. So many dead and now, Jedi  _ leaving _ , unable to follow the pursuit they all sought from their youth: Light and peace and harmony. On its own the war couldn’t wreak enough havoc, apparently, so it unsettled even the most unchanging and secure of Orders. 

It never ended, just repeating, growing, worsening and crippling him until he purged everything he felt. 

Kneeling, throwing up emotions, his body ran ragged, it was all he could do to stand up again and keep going, barely meeting the sight of himself in the mirror. 

Clouded with steam, a phantom met his lidded gaze. A ghost with neatly kept hair, faint lines crinkled between his eyebrows and resting at the corners of his eyes; a ghost with lean muscle and shoulders dusted with hair and freckles, not scars. A ghost with callouses worked into his hands. A ghost with sunken eyes and a smile that no longer reached them. He did not even bother to wipe the mirror clean so he might meet that sight easier. Steam billowed in the cramped fresher, caressed his raw skin and left everything slick and damp. 

When he eventually opened the door, cold air would hit him again and with it, reality. The haze would diffuse out, clarity would be restored. Eventually the mirror would clear, his skin and hair and countertop would dry of their dewey condensation. Eventually those things could be right again, but with every passing day he grew less certain the storm inside him would so easily pass over. 

-

The sun rose slowly on Coruscant, but thick clouds worsened by haze and fog hid it’s ascension and turned golden light into dreary grey. It rendered the office even more oppressive than usual, the reds looking ominously bloody under the poor synthetic glow lamps. Nothing could properly replace a solar hue to this so officious chamber— and hunkered in his chair, face drawn, the Chancellor himself brought no personable joy to it. Then again, neither did Grand Master Kenobi. 

He sat with one leg propped on the knee of the other, chin resting in his palm as he stared passed the anvil weight of the ruling chair and out the window instead. Traffic streams blurred more than usual, all of it a haze,  _ everything  _ a haze— not just in the office or directly outside the window but stretching so far beyond that too. The galaxy awash with unsurity. 

Obi-Wan’s other hand rested on the chair’s arm, fingers drumming in the only sign of his internal torment, a troubled nature that at least they shared. Palpatine’s mouth thinned in a sympathetic look. 

“It is quite a shame indeed.” He sighed, then rolled his frail shoulders in a meager shrug, “As Chancellor I could not show my support for either side, though I hope it is obvious who I preferred. Yet even then I cannot deny the importance of the outcome.”

Obi-Wan shut his eyes. The words washed through him slowly, a trickle into his thoughts with the potential to flood— he could not allow himself to be overwhelmed, so he breathed out and let his frustration pass into the Force. 

_ There is no emotion _ . 

“Of course I understand, Chancellor. There’s nothing you or I can do about it now, only carry out what the Senate decides.” Looking at the stretch of fabric over his thigh, his mind recalled singed thread, the burnt stench of coarseweave and hair and skin, charred blaster fire. It should have scarred, but under Healer Che’s mastery, Geonosis left nothing behind, not from bolts or blades. Only Anakin and the dead were left with a physical, personal reminder. 

Unless the war’s continuation counted, and under that, the entire galaxy still suffered. Five million new soldiers to be cranked out of Kamino. The Senate approved it only that morning, despite the rallying push of close to two thousand senators determined against the order. This was democracy, so the majority won out. 

“And are the Jedi prepared to accommodate this expansion?” Palpatine asked, face wrinkling with further concern. 

“It is hardly a matter of what the Order  _ can  _ do and more of what we must.” Obi-Wan thought of the planets beyond that window, as though he could see right to the Outer Rim by looking hard enough through the transparisteel and the fog outside. “Finding a place to put five million more men will be less difficult than I’d like. Siege in the outer systems… of course, forgive me. You know this all as well as I do, if not better.”

Palpatine waved a hand and dismissed the apology. “Oh I cannot fault you for being thorough in your complaints, Master Obi-Wan.”

The Jedi nodded his thanks but something sour sank in his throat. Like they talked of the weather, or some displeasing cancellation of a galactic opera performance, something less substantial. 

“Did you pay much attention to the arguments of any senators involved?” The Supreme Chancellor asked, turning forward with some focus. 

“No. I did not have the time to,” or the interest, Obi-Wan considered. His mind was poorly occupied keeping up with every matter in the Senate. Even in the overlap of Republic and Jedi matters, he couldn’t stomach paying equal attention to even half of, let alone all, possible precedings. 

“All the better for that.” Palpatine nodded. He turned his head to half look at the window and some distant, unclear expression passed his troubled face. Obi-Wan could never sense the man in the Force. Some wore their emotions brazenly, even Anakin did despite his training otherwise. Yet some, regardless of their Force sensitivity, existed with a much less resounding presence. And Palpatine read like still water, calm sure and without a ripple of power in the Force. 

“Such diplomacy is exhausting, particularly when there is nothing to do but wait. Though I find it always reminds me of the capable leaders that make up our government. Bail Organa proves himself time and again for his level headedness. With him, both Alderaan and the Senate are in capable hands.” The Chancellor nodded solemnly, agreeing with his own words. “I have to find reassurance in such things as I am entirely at the disposal of the Senate’s whims. Such democratic leaders as Senator Organa provide me a very great comfort.”

Obi-Wan heard the words but cared little for them. Of course Palapatine could rely on such simple promises of the goodness of people, the quality of his own inferiors in the Senate, but with war raging, Obi-Wan saw no hopeful pattern for the rest of the galaxy. It did not suddenly make him pity or trust politicians simply because they were in the same boat, caught in this conflict. 

The Chancellor straightened in his chair. The leather creaked as some thought excited him, “And I say without a trace of favoritism that Senator Amidala also proves herself time and again. She has worked quite closely with the Jedi before, has she not?”

Managing a smile, Obi-Wan replied, “Yes, she has. Anakin and I were assigned to protect her before the war, and my former Master and I worked with her when liberating Naboo from the Trade Federation.” His smile felt empty. He reviewed past atrocities like pleasantries, of which the old man was certainly already aware. But he continued despite himself, feeding into the lie of ease and friendship. 

Not that he distrusted the Supreme Chancellor. Far from it, actually. The man was, if anything, his only equal and only comfort. In another life, in other circumstances, perhaps he could have regarded the man with the same affection Anakin showed. 

“Of course, that was during  _ your _ time as Senator but I trust you were made aware of what a crucial role Padmé played. Without her, I fear my Master and I would have failed in our mission. She has been a tremendous help many times.” On Geonosis, where she should not even have been, she did more to save him than he did for himself. He understood why both the Chancellor and Anakin admired her so. 

Padmé’s bravery was without equal, as was her kindness. Though of course, from what he understood, she showed no reserve towards her opposition in the Senate arena. He admired her for her conviction more than anything, for she undoubtedly held all the qualities which he found lacking in her peers. 

Yet her circumstance allowed her more information than the Order was eager to share with the rest of the Senate, let alone the rest of the galaxy. They  _ should _ , for Force sake, but Obi-Wan trusted the wisdom in Yoda’s decision before he held the highest authority. The Sith existed as the Jedi’s personal nightmare, a boogeyman to haunt them and no one else— besides, no one else knew who they were. Why would they? What did  _ Sith  _ or  _ Jedi  _ matter to those who had  _ normal _ lives to lead?

Normal tasks, normal problems Obi-Wan couldn’t even fathom but for the first time in his life, found himself longing for. To be bothered by… crop rotations, a particularly annoying neighbor, too much or too little rain, a holodrama going off air. Mundane things. 

No, instead the universe gave him  _ millennia of unresolved conflict  _ as a  _ daily  _ nuisance. 

Padmé, even for all her talents, could not understand that, and as Grand Master he continued the limitation on her knowledge of Jedi affairs. He trusted her to keep what she already knew secret, for he had no choice but to trust her. She was there for the appearance of Maul and the death of Qui-Gon, there on Geonosis, there to see Dooku and know him as a greater threat than he revealed, even as leader of the Separatists. Behind him lay a greater evil, a Sith Master. 

_ What if I told you that the Republic was now under the control of the Dark Lord of the Sith. Hundreds of Senators are now under the influence of a Sith Lord called Darth Sidious.  _

“It is quite a shame that her politics make her the enemy of so many,” The Chancellor sympathized. “Her bravery and commitment to democracy ought to be celebrated. She made a rallying push against this order for more clones but, again I cannot show a bias on the Senate floor.” Obi-Wan could see rather than sense a pain in the old man’s words, revealed in the shadows of his eyes. Palpatine served as her mentor for so long, and now he watched her suffer against a cause none of them could control. Obi-Wan understood the feeling all too entirely well. 

“Which brings me to a small matter.” The Supreme Chancellor stated. His eyes melted with concern, a pleading understanding that the Grand Master might listen. “Senator Amidala must go to Mandalore for a diplomatic matter - I won’t bore you with the details - and is expected soon after to journey to Alderaan for a peace mission. I wondered if a Jedi might accompany her. After such a grueling fight on behalf of peace…” He trailed, compassion stealing his words away. 

Obi-Wan saw how it pained him. He knew well enough the determination of those who wished to see Padmé silenced.  _ Bounty hunters, Kamino _ . 

And he could not forget the danger of such destinations either. On Alderaan she might be perfectly safe, but  _ Mandalore _ — “Is it right to send her there just after the attack of the Republic cruiser? As a neutral system, and given their history, Mandalore does not take kindly to Republic involvement even if Duchess Satine welcomes it when necessary. But you know as well as I do that this attack may mark the actions of Death Watch.” The holorecorded sight of it still etched at the front of his memory, smoke and debris and the burning, charred interior of the Republic ship. Like they needed  _ another  _ murderous cult, more blatant than the Sith, to start blowing things up too. 

The Supreme Chancellor frowned and his mouth opened very little to let his defense escape, “I believed the investigations of your own Master Gallia into the affair proved all to be restored on Mandalore. Besides, with a chaperone, I expect all would go well, but that’s only if you trust your own Jedi.”

Obi-Wan blinked away both the rippling memories of pain and the old man’s accusation. He nodded, “Of course, Chancellor. Master Windu is recently returned—“

“Oh no,” Palpatine interrupted, something of disgust flashing on his face for a moment before he smiled indulgently. “I actually hoped young Anakin might be able to go with her.”

Obi-Wan blinked once more and fought to school his surprise. He often forgot quite the degree of closeness between his former Padawan and the Supreme Chancellor. Anakin, with his last mission finished, returned to Coruscant as they spoke, likely with plenty of time to prepare to leave once more with Senator Amidala, if the Chancellor’s planning was to be trusted. 

“They are such old friends and I thought, well in these trying times, it might be good for both of them to… have some  _ time _ together again.” 

Obi-Wan managed a softer look. Of course. Anakin and his adoration for Padmé… which he probably told Palpatine all about in his teenage years and for that idea, Obi-Wan smiled. How annoying that must have been, a gawking young Anakin fawning over a girl years his senior who he only met just the once. 

And while accompanying Padmé on her missions should - only  _ should  _ not  _ would  _ because he knew better than to expect even the bare minimum - prove easier than slogging it in the Outer Rim, chasing down General Grievous, Obi-Wan found himself hesitant to agree. Anakin deserved such an almost leisurely assignment, but war wasn’t about what anyone  _ deserved _ . The casualties proved that time and again. 

For he also deserved time at the Temple, time with his fellow Jedi, to reacclimate with the Force in it’s shining beacon. Time to meditate, to learn, to await his next orders and find something of the patience and obedience he historically struggled to learn. Most importantly, time to oversee Ahsoka’s training and allow  _ her  _ an opportunity to enjoy life at the Jedi Temple, a right and luxury taken away from her Padawan years. Obi-Wan mourned for her. 

Yet how could he deny Palpatine this entreaty? He asked so little and Obi-Wan agreed some Jedi escort would not be out of place. He offered up  _ Mace _ of all people, in no way downplaying the importance of the task. But the Chancellor asked for Anakin and  _ that  _ was where Obi-Wan faltered. 

So perhaps his hesitation sprang from selfishness and not concern, as he pondered under Palpatine’s waiting gaze. 

“I will put forth the idea to the rest of Council—“

“You needn’t be so modest, Master Kenobi.” The Chancellor sat back in his seat. A certain ease relaxed his shoulders and made him smile. “Surely they wouldn’t oppose anything you propose, they never did with Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan sensed a probing hint there— surely the Chancellor did not know that Yoda himself called for Obi-Wan’s ascension. They kept those details of the Order guarded, not that there was risk in revealing them but they only really mattered to the Jedi.

“I may hold the title of Grand Master but that does not grant me absolute power, and even if it did I would not exercise it.” A situation in which he felt compelled to that was unimaginable. Never could he tolerate the idea of acting as sole authority. The Chancellor may tease, but Obi-Wan believed they both acted with enough respect for their offices to never cross that line. 

“Oh of course, nothing of the sort,” Palpatine’s eyes dropped when he smiled, a genial and grandfatherly sort of look. “But I do ask this as a very  _ special _ favor. I certainly can’t  _ order  _ you to act on my behalf, but it would please me to see Anakin granted this mission. For the sake of Senator Amidala as much as for his own pleasure.”

Obi-Wan smoothed down the front of his robe, avoiding meeting the pleading nod that said  _ surely you can grant me that.  _ He would promise nothing, yet already knew as the thought settled deep in his gut that he would propose it to Council exactly as the Chancellor put it. All would agree Anakin deserved a less taxing mission, even if it meant robbing him of ideal training time with Ahsoka. They could not check all the boxes and with each mission something always fell away. 

Some opportunity, some normalcy, they could not achieve everything. Anakin would go, as the Chancellor requested. He would travel with Padmé, reunite with a friend, and leave his learner at the Temple, in the family they shared yet could never really share  _ with _ . All sense of community fell second to their duties. Obi-Wan knew there was no winning, but he smiled because he could not let his personal upset take over, not for Anakin’s sake, not for the galaxy’s either. Duty not emotion—  _ there is no attachment _ . 

_ There is peace _ . 

-

Obi-Wan sat in the dark of his quarters, blinds not entirely drawn but the greyness outside let little light pass through. Legs crossed, he breathed in and out, repeated exhales to pass his worries into the Force. After his troubles at the beginning of the war and his ensuing loneliness, he found time to meditate and regain his peace. Now, he could not go a day without a moment to himself to center his feelings, his emotions and concerns both personal and duty-bound. 

Consciousness expanded so his became one with that of the whole Temple, so everything and everyone bled out, mixing from the bright center of the cosmos out, out, further and further into the reaches of wild space. Life and matter and stars and planets, with Coruscant and the Temple and the Order at the heart, and he in his room, just breathing in and breathing out. A simple constant he could rely on. The air, the Force, his hands resting gently on his knees, eyes closed, back straight, and he let the light guide him. 

A wonderful moment really— it decluttered his thoughts, let him reach harmony, release the tension always building in his shoulders, his fingertips, behind his eyes, woven into every fiber of himself. He could sink into it forever, just embracing the Force, letting it swallow him and take those mundane problems away. 

He always found some comfort in meditation, of course. One couldn’t live through a Padawanship under Qui-Gon Jinn and not manage some way to find it bearable. But more than that, he did rely on and enjoy the act. Harmony with the Force, that was their purpose. Peacekeepers and students first and foremost, everything else the galaxy saw them as - warriors, heroes, generals, legends, a mythos entirely beyond the real and substantial - fell away in comparison. 

Yet in the years on his own, or rather with Anakin at his side, he learned to appreciate the living Force and moving meditations more: the intertwined existence of harmony and life. 

Now, once more engulfed in solitude, he sought it out again. His katas, his meditations, his isolating pursuit of the great unknowns. When he could not travel the galaxy, could not accept missions, could not lead the war as a proper  _ leader _ should, he could at least touch the far-reaching tendrils of the Force, in his mind, in his own quarters, entirely alone. 

Despite the peace within- the exuding serenity, dust particles sifting through the meager light, grey and warmed only by a dim orange glow lamp - his door slid open. 

“Master— Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—“

Obi-Wan breathed out his final worries and smiled softly, shown more in his eyes than on the lips hidden in his beard. “It is alright young one. It’s better that I don’t spend the whole day meditating, and I perhaps lost track of time.”

He stretched, a slow aching along his back, all the way through his shoulders as his arms extended above his head. He broke out of his posture leisurely, like a flower unfurling under the morning sun. 

Silhouetted in the light from the hallway, Ahsoka Tano stood in his doorway, hands hidden in the folds of her robes. “Really it’s nothing! I can come back—“

“Ahsoka, please,” The Grand Master stood. He earned the same stretch in his legs, a relieving tension in his hips and thighs, his lower back. “I am here for you, to talk, to listen, whatever you may need. Would you like to come in?”

She nodded, a hesitant and small little motion he could only tell by the movement of her montrals. She still did not speak, shuffling in as he turned on another lamp and bathed them in a serene amber. 

“How is your training coming along?” He probed. Beckoning to a chair, he urged her to sit as he puttered about and began making tea. The old pot was cold in his hands and he thought of all the time he’d held it, and before him how his Master did the same. Ceramic, clean and worn under years of use, a gift or something from some mission, Obi-Wan wished he remembered the details. Real pottery and not synthetic material - he liked to imagine another Jedi crafted it through artistic Force talent, but always in his head existed some echo that this pot originated from a better, more carefree life very far from the Order. 

“It’s fine,” Ahsoka answered quickly, then a wry look passed her face. “Well, it’s  _ good _ actually. I thought being the Chosen One’s Padawan would be terrifying but… Anakin is a good Master.” Her voice softened as she spoke and he could feel her uncertainty lift off her shoulders. 

When he turned back he held two steaming cups in his hands. She nodded her thanks as he set them down and joined her. He preferred this so much more than Council summons. It reminded him of his own time as a learner and how the Order always celebrated teaching from anyone, for despite the titles they were equals, every one of them. For so long he sought out the guidance of Master Windu over everyone else, though now he had none else but the Force to turn to. 

“Oh I understand, and I promise you it was no less daunting to be the Chosen One’s  _ Master _ than it must be to be his apprentice.” That earned him a small smile on her face, peeking over the lip of the cup. Pleased, he sat back, adding “Though of course, he can be quite a—“

“Headache.” She deadpanned, brows dropped into flat white lines over her bright eyes. Unamused, entirely serious, but behind it he sensed some fond exasperation. 

“Yes,” he mused, “and in the Force especially.” Sharing a training bond with him felt like hurtling into a sun. Talking a sip of tea, warmth spread through him and he held the cup with two hands, still waiting for the last of Ahsoka’s nervousness to abide. She had not appeared so they could chat over Anakin and his antics. “But I sense that is not what troubles you, young one.”

Her eyes darted away from his. She looked so small, sitting before him, with her robe bundled around her; like every other Padawan pushed into this conflict undeservingly. In her hands, she spun the cup, palming it nervously and letting her fingers drum on the sides. “No, you’re right Master.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone with it because I wasn’t sure— I kept having these dreams and I thought maybe it was because I was tired… our mission was long and I thought they would go away if I had time to meditate, and time here at Temple.”

“But they haven’t gone away, have they?” For a flash, fear gripped him. Simply the word  _ dreams _ turned his blood to ice. Anakin’s dreams about his mother, the dreams Obi-Wan ignored, and for that Shmi Skywalker died in her son’s arms. Anakin’s anger, a ripe and burning heat, inky black and seeping out of him, the fire of it licking at Obi-Wan’s skin because his former Padawan held no reservations in accusing him. It was Obi-Wan’s fault for not listening, for not realizing the gravity of these things yet  _ Anakin _ suffered for it. 

A phantom hand around his throat. From that moment he swore it never left, and every so often only strengthened its hold. 

“No, Master Obi-Wan, they have not.” She swallowed heavily after a gulp of tea. Her concern only seemed to mount, distress lining her face and leaving her signature barbed and unwelcoming to his attempts at soothing her. “I do not know what to make of them and… I’m afraid.” 

He could practically hear all the insecurity that came with admitting that.  _ Fear _ , which they were to avoid. Fear led to anger, and so one. All Jedi knew this. The Darkside loomed. 

“It is not our task to  _ not _ feel, but to understand and adapt. Feelings are natural. We are all afraid sometimes, even me and Master Yoda.” Setting his drink down, he leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “Sometimes the Force gifts us with dreams that are visions, premonitions, and they do not always feel like gifts. Anakin had them during his Padawan years as well.” He hated the sound of it— like they were something to be dismissed, like Anakin grew out of them. Though of course, he only knew what Anakin told them. The continuation of them, the strength of them, Obi-Wan felt helpless offering advice to something he did not experience. 

The Force was too complicated, its gifts too multitudinous, for him as Grand Master to provide proper comfort. At least Master Yoda’s years granted him more wisdom, that and his already unusually strong connection to the Force far surpassed anything Obi-Wan offered. 

“I couldn’t make sense of it at first, but it’s the same thing every time now.” Both their tea cups sat on the table ignored. “I keep seeing Senator Amidala in danger— I see a bounty hunter with plans to assassinate her… well not just plans, but actually  _ doing _ it.”

She spoke cold, forcing the words out so they could hover in the air between them, a burden shared. Her eyes flicked from her hands to his face and then back, and he watched silently, feeling the static of her anticipation. 

After his meeting with the Chancellor and the assignment of Anakin to such a protective task, the words hit her perhaps more than she intended. Padmé’s transport docking on Coruscant, the smoke of it filling the low atmosphere after the attempt on her life that led them here. Led him to Kamino and every horrible thing afterwards. Threats against Senator Amidala weren’t to be taken lightly, but  _ visions _ unnerved him even more. 

“I know that Anakin-“ her formality abandoned her and for that he found no fault. Not  _ Master Skywalker _ anymore, just Anakin. He almost longed to hear her say  _ Skyguy _ once more, for that was a story he wanted to hear- “was assigned as her protective duty, so it’s not that I distrust her safety but… I’m worried, Master.”

He wanted to reach out - to reach through not just the space between them but the ideas, far more fundamental, that separated her and him. The Padawan of his Padawan, a learner in the Force, junior to his title, age and experience. Yet she deserved all the praise and opportunity in the galaxy and he could only give her so much without overflowing with  _ emotion  _ and  _ attachment  _ far beyond the bounds of the Code. Every one of them deserved more than war gave, but in her he could see the hurt much clearer. 

“Originally we, the Council and I, hoped you might remain here on Coruscant to make up for the training and time that you miss while on duty. Of course, we planned for Anakin to be  _ with  _ you so he might continue your training before your next mission, but now-“ He waved a hand with a grim look. Even as Grand Master he could hardly deny the Chancellor’s request. And worse, in the end he agreed. Anakin deserved an easy mission, time with an old friend, no matter how much Obi-Wan pined for his company. 

His eyes stuck on Ahsoka— and how would things be different if he didn’t hold this title? He wouldn’t just see Anakin more, but her too. Perhaps the three of them would share missions and command together, perhaps always at one another’s side, perhaps if that were the case she wouldn’t look so alone either. 

“As Anakin is now assigned offworld for that duration, it does leave us with some options.” Curiosity sparked in her Force presence and he fought a smile. So young, so eager, he could only imagine how she looked in battle with that same exuberance and that same power. 

“You are just as free to remain here and train however you see fit as you were before. Any Master would be glad to substitute for Anakin.” Kindness crinkled soft lines on his face, but he swallowed the offer he wanted to voice. She barely knew him as anything other than  _ Grand Master  _ and was much closer with Plo Koon and others— there was no reason she might choose his teaching over anyone else, or at all. “But I do not wish to diminish what the Force has shown you. We cannot be certain what we are shown or why, but an assassination attempt against Senator Amidala is something that cannot be overlooked, and I thank you for informing me.”

She flushed a darker orange under her white markings, gaze darting away again. Still she looked small, yet he sensed her flickering pride. 

“I could inform Anakin of your dreams so he may be on the lookout, but the Force showed them to  _ you _ and not to him. If you wish, you may accompany him and protect the Senator as well. Both would be welcome for the company and it will help you learn on your own where the Force is guiding you.”

Her satisfaction hit like a small nebulous, the staticky thrill of it chasing up his spine as she sat up straight. “Thank you, Master Obi-Wan!” And he bit his cheek to keep from saying she need only have  _ asked _ and he would have agreed to the plan anyway. Yet her concern still rippled behind her enthusiasm, a genuine worry for Padmé’s safety that assured him Ahsoka sought him out with duty-driven purpose, and not just a juvenile wish not to part with her Master. He could not say that either he or Anakin would have behaved so maturely at the same age. 

Contentment and pride reverberated in his being, softening a smile on his face as he nodded, “Come now, we can inform your Master before he gets ahead of himself assigning you homework in his absence.”

She rolled her eyes and he knew he hit a mark - of course Anakin would pull a trick like that. Unfolding her legs from her comfortable criss-cross, she sprang up, cocking her head. “You could always tell him he’s not allowed to,” Ahsoka grinned, sharp teeth glinting and Obi-Wan just shook his head. 

“He never did well at listening to my orders. With Anakin, that won’t do any good at all.”

And for a moment, he felt this ease with her, something normal, not defined by either or their positions. It made his tensions, normally as persevering as Ilum’s ice, melt away. This was something he could have shared with her, he could have known her better. 

The light from the Temple hallways poured out and embraced them, and they stepped into it leaving his subdued quarters behind. Hands in their cloaks, walked through the great arched corridor looking like mirror images of the paintings of Jedi long past, depicted on the walls in murals and etchings, statues and reliefs that wrapped their everyday life into centuries old history. Grand Master and Padawan, a small lineage bonded together, yet so often stretched across the galaxy in an unmanageable divide none could control. 

“Other than your training, how is everything else for you, Ahsoka?” When he spoke, glancing at her, she started at the question. He could see her eyes widen and the white lines of her brows shoot up. 

“Oh— well I did mean it when I said everything’s fine.” Quickly, she looked back at him, and then forward down the long stretch of corridor. “Sometimes it’s hard and I wish I had more time here but I feel like I’m really learning. And it’s great working not just with Anakin, uh - Master Skywalker, I mean - but with Captain Rex and the 501st too. They’ve all shown me a lot more about flying and ships and droids than I ever expected to learn before. And military tactics, strategy, making sure I see three steps ahead and not just one.” Fondness pulled at her lips and echoed between them. Sensing her presence felt not unlike Anakin’s bright and excited, passionate and poorly suppressed. A white light, white heat and new star, stretching into the universe— he wondered if Mace felt this when he saw the fractal shatterpoints of a person’s future and importance, this same cosmos and aura. 

“Though I don’t think I’m always the best at that part. Sometimes, even though Master is the General and  _ I’m  _ Commander, Rex keeps us both in line.”

“Oh my, I hope you two aren’t endangering yourselves unnecessarily.”

“ _ Well— _ “

When he hummed she only looked at him sheepishly and that finally made him laugh. He of course intended for her to spend her Padawanship under the tutelage of Master Plo Koon, with whom she would surely have flourished, but  _ Anakin _ as her teacher provided something new. Clearly she respected him, regardless of the nearness of their age, the novelty of his own ascension to Knighthood and every other sign that showed them ill-suited. Yet even with that respect, she grinned and teased and the name  _ Skyguy _ rattled unexplained in Obi-Wan’s head. He hoped the match was as good as Anakin as it appeared for her. 

Obi-Wan bowed his head as they passed Master Yoda leading a group of younglings through the hall. Some giggled but tried to stay serious and quiet. And some, to Obi-Wan’s amusement, stood taller than their old Jedi Master teacher. The sight filled him with warmth— Yoda expressed a desire to teach more and lead less and Obi-Wan saw how it suited him. The years wore even the untouchable Yoda down; in his willingness to prolong the Light and guide the Force from Darkness, training future Jedi let him flourish. At least Obi-Wan’s promotion to Grand Master allowed Yoda to pursue something happier, something productive and inspiring. 

Once the group passed, Ahsoka spoke again. Her Padawan beads moved when she tilted her head, softly clacking together. “Master says I’m really coming along in Jar’kai. He’s a great teacher but I always think about what  _ you _ said, about balance.” She fell silent again, only their padding footsteps filling the space. It did nothing to reach the great expense of the hallway, to expand into the corners caressed by dim evening light, into the niches of art work. Elsewhere, he felt the thrumming of the Temple’s life, other Jedi working and eating and sleeping and meditating. Somewhere, a young Knight mourned the lack of better dining options; a Padawan helped organize the archive as punishment; two Jedi played sabacc; someone revived a dying plant, made music with the Force, made art, practiced katas, meditated, laughed, considered what color tunics to wear, dreamt about their first lightsaber— multitudes unfolded. No two experiences proved the same, and in the Temple’s pinnacle they mounted and wove together, much like a continuous group prayer, a song and each one of them contributed in harmony. 

As much as he missed the rest of the galaxy, missed feeling his purpose like an extension of his saber, an extension of his very essence, the Temple’s peace pervaded him. It grounded him and he did not diminish the importance of maintaining it. 

Ahsoka’s failing to properly shield her feelings hardly surprised him, he traced along the cracks through which her unease crept out. “I never really understood why the Council elected someone so young as Grand Master. I’m sorry—“

Sulfur-tasting fear lit up her signature, an acrid shock at her own words. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and cringed, “I know that’s rude. And I don’t doubt Master Yoda or the Force or anything but… When I saw you train with my Master, I think I finally understood.” Cooling relief breezed through her unease, everything she wanted to say now strung out. Fluttering fabrics of her confession pinned to a tight line of truth, of youthful and unapologetic honesty. 

Internally he begged her to say more, to explain what that even  _ meant _ . How could she understand what he failed to? Every day for months, as this war dragged into time too long for him to quantify - doing so was easily possible but it made that familiar nausea return, but really he knew  _ months _ sounded dishonest for they stretched into a  _ year _ instead - he pleaded that the Force show him  _ why _ . Yoda promised such an explanation existed yet he battered at the Force, battered at war and darkness and Sith, a presence growing eternal and unknowable by the second, elusive, drenched in his own fear, and again and again the Force provided no answer. 

But this girl, this young Togruta Padawan stated with assurance that when she saw him, she knew. And perhaps his shock - his turbulent  _ doubt _ \- leaked out of him like her own feelings had because she looked up at him with this knowing and pleased and friendly grin. 

“You don’t have to look so surprised, Master Obi-Wan. I mean… you guys are  _ Obi-Wan Kenobi  _ and  _ Anakin Skywalker.  _ Every Jedi begged to hear about you in class.” He supposed, with all the myths and prophecies and legends that existed around them, he never considered he could be one. Old Qui-Gon, a mystic until his dying breath, believed in Anakin in an instant, so of course children raised around whispers of  _ Sith, hero, Chosen One _ would feel the same. 

Together, they hopped down a set of stairs, steps curiously in sync as their passage continued. An atrium opened up before them, a stretch of windows pouring in even more suffused light, colored by stained images with fractal artistry. At his side, Ahsoka shuffled her hands in her robes, clearly not accustomed to the more concealing garment. Out in the field, there was no need for it, and she spent more time there of late than at ease in the Temple that was her home. “And anyway, Skyguy looked the same when I told him.” Her grin stretched brighter and he felt not uncomfortably on the teasing end of a joke. 

Yet still eager to pass over any praise of himself, Obi-Wan instead inquired with a carefully raised brow, “And how does he take to being called  _ Skyguy _ ?”

“Well he calls me Snips, so it’s even.”

Obi-Wan struggled to conceal his smile, idea of an impassive Master still floating in his head. Someone like Yoda, or Mace, or even Plo Koon, all who kept their feelings much better concealed. But his excitement to know her sparked in the corners of his lips and corners of his eyes. “Who came up with the nickname first?”

“Well… I did, and he started saying Snips to get back at me, but I don’t mind it.” She rolled her eyes in admitting it, affection softening but still present as clearly as the white markings on her face. 

Just beyond them, Temple turned into hangar and distantly they could watch Anakin preparing for the journey. A GAR issue ship instead of one of Padmé’s own: Anakin’s decision which, as GAR General, overruled the Senator. It allowed him to better check and double check (triple check and so on) every security measure aboard his own transport, the familiarity ensuring no matter could be overlooked. He already knew the ship like the back of his hand - or better, as intimately as not just the back but every single component, particle, and synthetic nerve relay of his prosthetic - so he spared no detail. Obi-Wan remembered the last time Padmé was entrusted to his care, remembered Anakin’s first nervous and boyhood crush rendering him just as overprotective and cautious and eager. Time matured him, he moved with authority, not fear.

Obi-Wan stopped at the threshold, turning to face Ahsoka. The separation of hangar and Temple flooring divided them, she walked past him so when he looked over her shoulder he could survey the war preparations he ordered but took no part in. And behind him lay the house of the Order, her home only in name. 

He managed a parting smile. “And why did he choose  _ Snips _ ?”  _ Skyguy _ he could understand, since Anakin’s last name made it so easy. 

“Because I’m snippy,” she still grinned, undeterred by tease or insult. How terrifying it must have been for her, to be assigned to Anakin without him knowing, and he no doubt protested to some extent which Obi-Would would never fully learn. Picking up something as simple as a nickname allowed her to feel secure in a post that came unwillingly. It proved Master Yoda right. 

She shrugged then, glancing behind her. Whether Anakin sensed or noticed them, he showed no sign of it and saw to the securing of fuel provisions on his own, ducking in and out of the ship at frequent intervals. When Ahsoka whipped back to face him, her lekku swayed and she cocked a hand on her hip. “He’ll be alright Master. I can tell him myself. If I tell him the order came from you, he won’t even question it because I wouldn’t ever try to get away with  _ that _ kind of lie.”

Obi-Wan half wondered what kind of lie she  _ would  _ try to get away with, but he bowed his head. Within himself, he hated to admit it, but sparing him this brief reunion with his former Padawan was the greatest kindness she could offer him. Each meeting, each unsatisfying little moment of passing, of recognition that could never make up for their lost bond, it stabbed and tore at him and he could not take it. Anakin always went away again, always went to serve under Obi-Wan’s orders in the name of a cause so much greater than either of them that he could not protest for his own much more selfish agenda. 

From here the sweat on Anakin’s neck still shone, humid air and physical labor exerting him. Between his brow, a furrow creased that once exuberant face, and his jaw set tensely. Obi-Wan itched to hold that face in his hands and smooth all worry away, to bask in Anakin’s golden Force presence and think of nothing but one another. He swore even a glimpse of those eyes might satisfy him forever, yet Anakin worked with duty-bound focus so Obi-Wan’s gaze reverted to the Togruta. 

“Thank you, for listening, and for your advice. I know that he doesn’t really need me on this mission, and I trust him but—“

“These visions are your own, Ahsoka. The Force guides us to places we do not always understand and sometimes enlightenment comes from horrible things.” He could only hope  _ her _ dreams would not come to pass as Anakin’s had. The kind upturn to her face cracked through his shields, and he admitted something which he voiced to none other. “I do not yet see why it has led me here, to my duty as Grand Master. But in time, it will show clearly to both of us.” Then he paused, squinted with some skepticism, and added “Hopefully, at least.”

Her reassurance, pride, acceptance, and a cocktail of other feelings swirled between them as her eyes lit up. She stood straighter and nodded sharply in a very good imitation of her clone Captain. “I won’t let you down, Master Obi-Wan.”

Pressing forward his own promise in the Force, he assured  _ you could not possibly disappoint me young one, you need only satisfy yourself.  _ As he spoke a final “May the Force be with you” which she reciprocated in kind before skipping off, he could not linger. What transpired between her and Anakin was their own affair and not one he could play voyeur to. He feared watching their closeness might break him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every time I write “May the Force be with you” religious brain jumps in and I start doubting if that’s something they say. 
> 
> Also: there’s now 17 chapters for this fic, so 7 through and quite a way to go left!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) We are finally getting into some of the plot and chapters I have had planned and written since the beginning! (Yes I had the other seven chapters planned too but THIS is getting somewhere)

In the Council chamber, so many seats laid empty, though for once only partially so for every space not occupied by a physical body sported a flickering holo as replacement. They may be strewn about the galaxy but at least they could gather as such, at least Obi-Wan did not look on gaping wounds of empty chairs and confront what he cost them. 

“We are relieved all is well,” Mace Windu spoke, leaned forward so his elbows propped on his knees and his fingers steepled together before his lips. The room’s soft, bouncing light lessened the shadows on his face made harsh by troubled concern. 

“Thank you,” Master Adi Gallia bowed her head, looking briefly at Master Plo Koon, whose mask hid his feelings. Any worry, or relief, or anything that he felt he kept shielded well in the Force and did not manifest in any visible signs. 

Though in Obi-Wan, nausea and uncertainty mounded. General Grievous had captured one of their own so easily— he did not blame her at all, but he could not fathom the horrors of that experience for either her or the Master that went forth and saved her. The actual experiences of those out in the war eluded him, any rush, adrenaline, fear, confidence, composure— any of that responsibility slipped through his fingers. Instead he moved them like pawns on a board, only taking small and mostly diplomatic missions. Meetings with the Chancellor, meetings with Senate… he felt a greater purpose resting under his skin, beating behind his ribs and fighting to escape. 

“You both have done very well,” he nodded his mild praise and they moved on, no longer needing to dwell on the capture. Even without the Force he could have sensed Adi’s guilt over it all, and he sympathized too much to linger. 

“Unfortunately, we must expect increased attacks from Dooku and Grievous now that peace proposals have been withdrawn.” More explosions flashed behind his eyes: the Republic’s hands killing innocents, killing friends like Mina Bonteri. Obi-Wan hated admitting to himself that Dooku  _ rightfully _ decided against negotiating peace with a government so frivolous doling out power and death. Yet he also knew the manipulating authority looming behind the great Count. Whatever angle he worked wasn’t for sympathy or human decency, it only served to continue this Sith plot behind the whole war in the first place. 

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose then scrubbed his hand down his face. “We must also prepare for doubts to arise from many Senators and their Republic territories. Dooku will want to play this all as our fault now that we’ve made an error. The Outer Rim especially will suffer, them and any occupied or enslaved planets we haven’t yet tried to fight for. They  _ will _ tighten their grip.”

This met with murmuring agreement and rather than unease,  _ conviction _ to keep fighting for peace.  _ Fighting for peace _ — a horrible phrase to summarize their unfolding conundrum. 

“Doubts already there are,” Master Yoda hummed with none of his usual humor, just cold and foreboding sincerity. Obi-Wan wondered what the old Jedi felt in the Force that no one else did, or at least, that he didn’t. 

“At the beginning of the Clone Wars, secure Toydaria for the Republic I did. Cautious, King Katuunko is.” Yoda’s hands wrung across the gnarled top of his staff. “Worried now for his people, questioned his side in the galaxy he has. Rather than occupation, go willingly to the Separatists he would prefer, to save his people, avoid more conflict, accept the  _ inevitable. _ ” 

Some more murmurings— surely this could only be the first of many to doubt their allegiance to the Republic. Worse, they doubted the Republic’s intentions and power to act on behalf of that loyalty. These rulers, their people and planets came first. 

“A mission to Rugosa, I propose. Asked for a meeting with a Jedi he has, our last argument to keep him this would be and lose him we must not. Lose one, and many more will follow.” His stick rapped on the ground and a hummed assent echoed through the chamber as airy and ascendant as the Force. 

While Obi-Wan stared into the room’s center, Mace spoke and filled in other placements where Jedi were needed. Some spoke and offered their willingness to go, to serve the Order, for they were already nearby or already on leave, or some other reason their service proved convenient. Newly appointed Master Agen Kolar’s holo flickered. Naboo, Aleen, Patitite Pattuna— so many missions to finish, to  _ start _ , and battles still raged. 

“And this mission to Rugosa? Who should we assign to that?” Mace asked. Obi-Wan glanced over at the Korun Jedi and found their gazes met. Of course they were asking him, as Grand Master the duty of assigning such a mission fell to him. 

“I will go.” The words escaped before he properly considered them but then again,  _ yes,  _ they felt right. He could go. It could be slightly more than his other voyages, more than negotiating with a Hutt. Yoda himself began this alliance so as Grand Master, he would continue it. 

For only a moment, Mace’s confusion flickered before he schooled his expression, yet Yoda spoke. It was not an opposition so much as a furthering of intel: “Easy I had it in first convincing the King, for willing to join the Republic he was after seeing our loyalty. But an eye on him Dooku now has. Better to take a planet already aligned with the Republic, show our weakness, than to prevent us from ever securing a smaller system.”

There was cruel logic in it. Dooku and Grievous and the GAR could spend another two years chasing circles around one another in the Mid and Outer Rims, trading planets back and forth like chips in some game. But to win over someone who allied themselves from the very beginning would expose fault and doubt at the very foundation of the Republic’s building. 

Toydaria could not be lost or else the Sith would win. 

“I will not fail,” Obi-Wan promised, looking pointedly at the old Grand Master and finding only complete faith echoed in his eyes. No matter what, Yoda believed in him with unshaking certainty. He wasn’t quite spiteful enough to jeopardize the mission and the Republic just to prove him wrong, but the idea did strike him even if only for a moment. 

“I will bring a small clone squad with me to assist if Dooku or any in his employ give us any trouble.” Obi-Wan looked back out at the rest of the Jedi High Council. Faces in glittering azure stared back expectantly. He nodded, “That will be all. I expect frequent updates even while I go to Rugosa and if all goes well… May the Force guide us all.”

He longed for the days of real companionship, to see the other Masters, to laugh and share mission reports with small smiles and the promise things would always bode well in the end for they had the Force on their side. Now they could not be so sure. 

The Council disbanded, leaving Obi-Wan alone still seated in his chair with Mace and Yoda waiting some paces away. He pressed into the orange cushioning, watching it squish under his fingers and then compress further as he eventually uncrossed his legs and stood. “If you could send word to King Katuunko, I shall depart immediately and be prepared to meet him at Rugosa.”

With Obi-Wan between them, they paced out of the Council chamber. “We can take care of that, Master Kenobi,” Mace nodded and Yoda hummed his agreement. 

“And I will bring part of the 212th with me. They’re stationed here in Coruscant for long enough that I can dispatch a squad.” Which made this, after such a long conflict and after leading them from a distance, the first time he would actually go on a mission with any of the clones. 

Quite formally, he nodded again, anxiety tweaked at his nerves. He agreed to it if his own volition and easily could have assigned someone else, but he  _ wanted _ to go, to get off Coruscant and feel more like he was doing something. 

To Rugosa, to hopefully stop Dooku’s reign before it grew further and with it, step closer to stopping Sidious as well. 

-

“Sir, I am entirely capable of piloting the ship and keeping an eye on everything on my own.”

Hyperspace blurred past the viewport. The small pilot’s cabin provided only two chairs in front of the control board and both carried bodies, but Obi-Wan also stood hovering over the main chair. 

Commander Cody sat in the pilot’s seat, hand securely resting on the yoke. His helmet laid in his lap, orange painted beskar clacked against the thigh plates. In the copilot position, Boil stared out at the streaky stars, quite pointedly looking at neither of his superiors. 

“Sir, you’re  _ hovering _ .” Cody repeated and the Jedi Grand Master let go of his hold on the back of the chair and stepped away, suddenly aware of himself. 

“Of course, my apologies.” Obi-Wan ran the same hand over his chin, then found a place for it on his belt, thumbing over the lightsaber hilt. At the beginning of the war, the loss of his old one at Geonosis’ droid factory required the construction of a new one. Since then he found his diminished number of missions and excursions granted little use of it.  _ This weapon is your life  _ Qui-Gon always said, but it became very little since he life reduced to small negotiations and meetings and very little active peacekeeping, entirely unlike every other Jedi or every member of the GAR. 

He knew this weapon from the black ridges and clean cuts of the rounded base to the flared tip, and a particular Force presence he never quite learned. A fire, a storm, a spark just like any other saber, but each one slightly different, more like a star. And all together, with the whole Order, they formed a dancing cosmos. 

His fingers graced it lightly, remapping the grooves he held so often, never letting them achieve their true purpose. Inside it, the kyber crystal sang in harmony with The Force, and with himself too. It called him in that cave, and again now. Beyond it, the Force hummed and old intuition surged up inside him. 

“I have a strange feeling about this,” he spoke low, mostly to himself, voicing the unsettled turmoil under his skin before he could doubt it. It felt too much like his sensations during missions as a Padawan, when Qui-Gon always had them rushing off into trouble. Or like while protecting Padmé, when he relied on instinct to foresee her danger, though when danger loomed most, his senses dulled. The darkness in the Force clouded them, and once more it slipped imprecise through his grasp, giving him no clear answer of what awaited them on Rugosa’s surface. 

Two years prior, at the start of this all, Master Yoda secured King Katuunko rather easily in comparison to other planets and systems. The Toydarian  _ wanted _ to side with the Republic, yet feared a vocal opposition to Dooku might incite attacks on his people. He desired a show of the Republic’s loyalty and skill, which Asajj Ventress’ ambush granted him. Yoda proved himself, so the king agreed. Now once more a Jedi voyaged to represent the Republic and Obi-Wan only sensed the worsening stakes, the tide of war changing and not in his favor. 

“Coming out of hyperspace in a moment, sir.” Boil reported. Obi-Wan came back to himself once more and watched the deceleration of stars, from uninterrupted streaks into smudging dashes then finally the smattering of far distant stars behind a backdrop of Rugosa’s swirling verdants. Unease solidified in his gut, and he swallowed down its desire to pour out of him. 

Cody waved his hand in some signal and the other clone swiveled out of his chair and headed to the back of the ship. His eyes still remained stuck to the viewport, and Obi-Wan watched the clean efficiency with which the Commander surveyed the planet and assessed their landing. How much of it was programmed in, how much was instinct— and how much of this would he already know if he’d spent any real time out in the field before now?

“I ask that you and your men stay on the ship unless I need you. Katuunko should be here for us already. I would not like to worry him with a show of soldiers when this is meant to soothe him, not intimidate.” Obi-Wan suppressed his own worry, but felt he delivered the request quite admirably. Perhaps he suited the title of High General afterall. 

“With all due respect, sir,” Cody only now bothered to look at him, face still hard and untelling. “My men and I are here for your safety just as much as King Katuunko’s. If we did not scan and scout the surface before you even set foot on it, we would be failing in that duty. You may not have much experience with clankers and Seppies, but I do.”

He could not stand the honest intensity of those dark eyes watching him, so he found his own gaze darting to the planet once more. Of course he was right— what did he know about any of this? Guilt and regret blossomed a flush on his face. Politely smiling, he nodded, “Of course. It would only be wise to defer to your judgment on this. It shall be as you say, Commander.”

The agreement settled uncomfortably between them, a prickly show of Obi-Wan’s ineptitude despite his seniority. His mind flashed to moments with Anakin, his years spent training a Padawan destined to eclipse the whole Order in his power. He hated the comparison, always granting him authority but never the proper wisdom or knowledge to earn it. How often would he be in charge but  _ lesser _ ?

“I will leave you to that then. I must make a final call to Council to inform them of our landing.”

“Yes, General.” 

-

Rugosa unraveled before them, the ship’s port under his feet the only synthetic structure in sight and easily the only one on the planet too. Though only a moon, uninhabited and lacking in its former oceans of ages ago, its beauty left nothing wanting. Coral spiraled up from the ground like great branches, serving as much as flora as it did as fauna. The shades varied in an array of purples, and structures differentiated even more in size, some expanding like impressive and sturdy rock formations. But it was all coral, the remaining legacy of those oceans. 

Cody led them out, jogging down the platform silently despite the weight of his armor. He ordered Obi-Wan come out last, just to be safe, though the Jedi found it overly cautious. He did as told, following orders rather than giving them for once. “We still have the Toydarian’s signal and no interference.” Waxer reported, straightening out of his crouch from visually scanning their landing site. “Rendezvous point straight ahead, though…” he trailed, because straight ahead might have been easy on another surface, but not this one. The weaving, labyrinthine nature of the coral ensured they would have to cover more ground than preferred just to meet King Katuunko. 

“We could blast our way through,” Boil shrugged, his helmeted head turning to look at Commander Cody for approval. Obi-Wan spoke first. 

“No. There may not be sentient life here, but we can still respect what there is. I would prefer we keep damage to a minimum.” Hand on his belt, he unclipped his saber and without asking for the permission he did not need, walked to the front of their group and led them through. His lightsaber made clean cuts through the clusters of coral only when necessary, reducing harm more than blasters could. 

Waxer pointed out the raised promontory of coral that marked their goal, and it could easily be seen through the gaps in the highest peaks of the planet’s violet appendages. Obi-Wan kept it in his sights as they wove through, and none spoke. Well, not anything important anyway. Faintly, some distance behind him, he heard both Waxer and Boil making their way through the branches. One of them kept getting snagged, much to the other’s exasperation. He wished he knew their voices well enough to tell without looking but that particular care belonged to Jedi who  _ really _ spent time with the men, not to him in his isolation. 

Ducking under another stretch, Obi-Wan pushed the hair out of his face. It had been so long since anything other than meditations and katas exerted him that the bit of sweat from the planet’s temperature humidity sent a thrill through him. Like his days as a Knight, or even before that his days as both Padawan and Initiate where he learned in  _ real _ environments that earned him an accelerated heart rate, a particular hitch in his breath. It didn’t run him ragged, no he was better trained than that. Instead, it excited him, face flushed with pride not weariness. 

It almost made him forget his unease, the wary curl in his veins, tugging him in the pit of his stomach and trying to anchor him to the ship. It begged  _ don’t go _ yet his curiosity, his equally Force-given determination pushed  _ go go go _ . It whispered  _ go, seek, find out, explore _ , because the Toydarian king could not be the source of those first voices warning him of darkness. Something  _ else _ lay ahead, and there was only one way for him to find it. 

The clearing opened up before them. Coral dwindled and shrank down as red-brown earth rose in a small hill. Closer to the peak, but not quite at the top, the Toydarian ruler waited for them, surprisingly not bringing any chaperones of his own - though perhaps desperation and discretion limited him. 

Obi-Wan approached, and nodded, “King Katuunko, I am sorry we must meet under these circumstances.” He had already powered down his lightsaber and clipped it back to his belt. From all his training with Qui-Gon, he knew quite well how to approach diplomats and royalty. Bowing his head, he clasped his hands peaceably in front of him. 

The King’s voice ground out gravelly but strong, withered by age not by weakness. “I agree, Master Kenobi. I was impressed with Master Yoda years ago and you know my concerns. I can’t risk my planet or my people.”

“Of course,” he nodded again and shifted his foot in the dirt. It was coarse, and rather like sand. But it wasn’t just the ground that lacked a strong foundation, the Force still unsettled him too. 

“Have you... spoken with any Separatists about this willingness to change sides?” Obi-Wan asked, hesitating part ways through and casting a glance at the horizon. Yet none of the clones stirred or alerted him to anything: everything remained clear, but still the Force nagged with this ever increasing pounding in his chest. 

“ _ What _ ?” Katuunko seethed his affront, going from cautious to enraged in a flickering moment. “If you’re calling me a traitor you—“

“No,” Obi-Wan’s eyes darted back, full focus on the Toydarian. “That isn’t what I mean at all, my apologies. You have every right to choose your own side in this war for the good of your people, and the Republic cannot stop you if you decide to leave. I find it admirable you prioritize your planet’s safety above your own power. And both the Jedi and the Republic will do everything in  _ our _ power to keep Toydaria safe and strong, so long as you are willing.”

He sighed, “As of now, we have no reason to believe Dooku will  _ attack _ already Republic allied sectors. He may find other ways to coerce you, but we believe he will keep siege to unoccupied territories and try to win over Republic leaders through  _ politics, _ not power.” For the moment, at least. So long as Dooku wanted to stick to the moral high ground and frame the Republic’s retaliations as senseless violence, his hands were tied and he was limited in where he could strike next. It didn’t matter if  _ he  _ bombed the Coruscant power grid first, it didn’t matter if  _ he  _ incited violence. The Republic struck back, innocents died,  _ Mina Bonteri _ died, so Dooku could claim whatever he wanted about the horrors of the Republic, their  _ slaughter _ , their oppressive hold on the galaxy. Those bound to believe him would listen. 

It was perfect— the Separatists carefully crafted opposition. No matter what the Republic did to try and fight for democracy, no matter what the Jedi did to fight for peace, war naturally turned them to hypocrites. The clones, the casualties, the planets ignored, the planets enslaved, the planets turned to ruin after months or  _ years _ of siege. Hope sifted just out of reach at every turn. 

At least those words calmed Katuunko, and he looked at Obi-Wan less with ire and more with general displeasure, which was circumstantial and not personal. 

“What I  _ meant  _ to ask,” the hair rose up on the back of neck, skin prickling beneath his tunic, “is if anyone knows you’re  _ here _ .”

Yet the galaxy afforded King Katuunko no time to answer— blaster fire rang out through the air and a fan of coral exploded. Obi-Wan whipped around, lightsaber already ignited to protect the Toydarian as the clones on solid ground fired expertly. Droids marched through the gaps in the landscape, bowling over what stood in their way with no regard for anything. 

“Here-“ Obi-Wan ensured the Toydarian safely reached lower ground. His blade spun great circles of blue through the air as he repelled each shot. With a Force push he grabbed onto two battle droids, lifted them from the ground and clenched his fist. Their metal plates crunched sickeningly as their parts burst inside them. They crackled as they fell back to the dirt, clanking together and laying still finally. His former Padawan would have called that a waste of good parts. 

Turning back, he found the same sight around him: battle droids poured into the clearing. His pulse raced in time with their steps and he expected the rumbling of a Separatist ship coming into the atmosphere, or a transport carving through the coral forest to double down on them. Yet none came, nothing to worsen the onslaught. Obi-Wan realized with tremendous confusion that in the history of ambushes, it might be the most pathetic one yet. 

He laughed,  _ actually  _ laughed, and let himself get lost in the dance of it, the lunging whirling spins of deflecting bolts as more droids fell, adrenaline and blood pumping. He felt  _ right _ , felt primed and meaningful for once, like he could  _ do  _ something. All that awareness reached out of him in the Force too and met that oily stink of darkness. Like bile in his throat, it rose up and hit him. In turning once more understanding finally dawned.

Ventress. 

She stood at the crest of the hill so he had to look up at her and she down at him. A strip of cloth masked half her face but he could imagine the menacing smile under it, one that lit fury simmering through his veins. Before he could shout anything, make some snide remark at her weak display, she leapt from the peak and darted through the coral branches in the opposite direction of her droids. 

_ Kark— _

He swore under his breath and Force summoned a demolished droid’s blaster to him. He shoved it into the Toydarian’s hands, “Use this. I have to follow her— you’re safe with my men.”  _ My men _ , an odd sentiment that rushed off his tongue and out of his mouth before he could doubt it. And he didn’t doubt it. Katuunko  _ would  _ be safe. Dooku couldn’t kill the Toydarian leader and still expect to easily take the planet with subjects falling at his knees. 

With that taken care, he darted in the direction the Sith assassin disappeared. She left no signs in her wake, not foot prints of stirred up dust or even slashes through the coral fingers. So he tracked her in the Force, trusting it to guide him. Everything zeroed in on her presence, a smokey and crimson signature that zipped through the lavender spines.  _ Ventress _ — he knew her well enough from endless reports, assaults, and holorecordings, her alliance with Dooku, his supposed apprentice. She spent the war proving herself a menace to not just the Order, but to light and peace themselves. 

He skidded to a halt in a gap between coral fields, panting and spinning his blade. The Force flooded further through him, spreading it’s reach flowing like the water that once covered this surface. Its waves battered against the landscape but he felt an absence of her presence. In this arena of coral and Force and dirt, Obi-Wan turned in place, reaching out more to try and feel something. 

His answer came with just enough time to raise his blade in defense. Two ember red sabers collided with his and the shattering hiss filed the quiet. 

“Ventress-“ he grit between his teeth. He repelled her first attack and she spun away half interested. He scoffed, a jab ready on his tongue but then she darted back through the coral and the chase continued. 

Why run? She’d already drawn him away from Cody’s men and King Katuunko. Her intended target, either him or them, was already separated so why not turn around and attack. Unless she just wanted to wear him down, in which case it would take a lot more than that. 

Again, he yelled out her name. They broke into another space and the coral branches fell away behind him. “I see Dooku sent you, but did you really think you and a few droids would stop the Jedi?”

Her disinterested shrug revealed no patience for his teasing; still she paced and did not engage. A canopy of Rugosa’s coral expanded in arches like foliage above her end of the clearing. Her presence’s shielding lowered and let him feel her amused ambivalence, a haughty air dyed pulsing red. “I don’t really care what Dooku thought. Maybe he knew about your little meeting and deployed these machines, or maybe he’s had them laying in wait for ages. _ I don’t care _ .”

She spun both blades and crossed them in front of her so they spattered and spit sparks into the dirt. The desire to swirl his and lunge forward in the first attack itched under his skin. She moved, tracking her prey, though neither would let themselves get taken, neither would strike. Her chase granted him more confusion than urgency.

In a fluid swipe she pulled down the cloth over her mouth and revealed a sneer, “Your intel is old Grand Master Kenobi, I don’t serve Dooku anymore.”

His surprise arrived too quickly to suppress it and she lit up with a grin. Sabers twirled a skirt of crimson at her sides, a promise of her lethal capabilities. A threat that only her  _ hesitation _ left him alive. 

“He abandoned me. I’m sure you know what that’s like. Poor old  _ Master _ loved to wax poetic about that: the grand Padawan he never really knew.” Her probing hints circled around his signature, shouting their taunts.  _ Qui-Gon died before he could even properly cast you aside. You saved him and his last words were still of a boy he barely knew— passed over for a child.  _ Echoes of her own hate battered against his fortitude. 

Her shoulders rolled in another loose shrug, as much a sign of nonchalance as preparation. “He got what he wanted and threw me aside. I was only his pawn anyway, his servant as he waited for something better. I understand he wanted  _ you _ , after all.” The bridge of her nose crinkled as her penetrating disgust leaked further. 

_ You must join me Obi-Wan and together, we will destroy the Sith.  _ Those words spoken on Geonosis never left him. None of it did. 

“But it’s fine, because Sidious is going to toss him aside too for a new apprentice, someone  _ better _ . Someone he’s been working on for years. Never said who— top secret I suppose. And poor  _ Master _ never quite got the memo, always thought he could win in the end. Doesn’t matter anyway because I’m going to cut of the dear old Count’s head before Sidious even gets the chance.”

Her grin stretched wide and pulled at the purple markings on her face, which well matched the shades of coral around them. He fell into Soresu’s ready stance only right before she whirled into the air and both her sabers once more clashed into his. The defensive guard provided him strength to fend her off; they met like contrasting elementals, colliding and mixing with hissing rage and steam. Their signatures swirled the same as their bodies, dancing round another into a positively volatile cosmos: his confusion but determination, her curiosity and rage.

Yet his mind anchored leagues away to where he abandoned Katuunko and Cody and Waxer and Boil— a lock of his hair fell in front of his eyes as he shook the Dathomirian woman off. “If Dooku didn’t send you then why are you here?”

Ventress’ backwards steps were quick and light. Once again her sabers fanned around her. She clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth, “It’s almost as if you’re not even excited to see me, Kenobi. I’m hurt,  _ really _ , and I got all dressed up just to please you.” Her face pulled with mock disappointment and she motioned down her own form. He could recall from old reports the holoimages of her attire and this indeed differed. The wrapping high on her arms, around her neck and the mask she’d cast off concealed her far better and outlined the lithe agility of her body, one honed in a lifetime of training for cruel vengeance. She appeared all the more an assassin of her own Night Sister lineage. If he was her target, this alteration was far from reassuring. 

“Two years, Kenobi. For two years your Republic and Dooku’s Confederation have been at war and you know it’s all just some  _ game _ as well as I do. Yet I at least  _ fought _ in it. Where have  _ you _ been? In your Temple, on your perfect, glittering Coruscant? But now here you are, come all the way just to win over sweet King Katuunko. He’ll side with you, but you know that. Your mission is already accomplished and now you’re just playing warrior.

“Do you miss it? A  _ purpose _ ? I would. Dooku never gave me one… such a  _ weak _ Master, interested only in himself and even then his ambitions were so nearsighted—“

“I may call this war a lot of things, but  _ nearsighted _ is not one of them.” Bile tasted bitter on the back of his tongue, burning in his throat as acrid as his dislike for her. He almost pitied her but her taunting pride helped very little, not because it bruised his ego but because it disgraced every innocent life lost to this conflict she reduced so easily. It disgraced the Order too, that companionship which the Count abandoned so he could sow this infinite discord. 

She hummed and if she would not re-engage him, then he would hold back too. Besides, he always got much more out of discussion than fighting. “ _ No _ ? Oh, well you must be the expert after all,  _ Grand Master.  _ Did you know I once wanted to be a Jedi too? My first Master trained me so well before he was killed and  _ Dooku _ was the only one left who saw my potential. I hate to admit it for all that I loathe him but he was  _ some  _ use to me. He fancies himself the future of the Sith but that is never going to happen.  _ Nearsighted _ .” She spat the word, lip curling, blades swirling, perfectly refined lethality. 

“He thinks he can win, not the war but the  _ game.  _ He thinks he can have his power and his peace no matter what because he thinks he’s as clever as Sidious -  _ more  _ clever really. Did he not tell you  _ any  _ of that on Geonosis? No? Well… what a tease. He does love to flaunt his knowledge yet reveal nothing. But  _ you _ , Obi-Wan Kenobi, I think you don’t even know  _ anything _ at all.”

“Why have you even come here?” Dropping back into his defensive, he expected the thrumming of her anticipation in the Force preceded another attack. Instead she only grinned and her sabers remained ignited but disengaged at her sides. Smug pride seeped out, as slick as the Darkside itself, a choking and oily grip that slipped down his throat. 

“To see what this is all about of course.” 

He  _ wanted  _ to goad her, wanted the spinning of his single blade to drive her into the offensive once more. He ran hot with need just like those years ago on Naboo. Rage pulsed, a fire fueled less by dark hate and more by the tenets of justice and light, retribution for all the harm she caused, for the men she killed without feeling. 

Obi-Wan’s lip drew up in a sneer of his own. Impatience and irritation laced his tone, “And what is that, my  _ sweet _ ?”

Her saccharine pleasure wrapped tendrils around his peppery ire. “ _ You _ , Obi-Wan.”

“ _ What?” _ He lowered his guard and thankfully she held no intention of attacking. She’d already won in a different way. So she spun her sabers in an elegant display, just showing off,  _ domineering _ and not  _ dominating _ . 

“Don’t play dumb, Kenobi. I expected better than that from the man who’s got the whole galaxy enraptured. Dooku, your Jedi Order, the Republic and half the Separatists too are  _ awed  _ by you, the Jedi High General, the Jedi Grand Master, the Negotiator, the  _ Sith killer _ .” A corner of her lips pulled up higher with the last epithet. “Dear Obi-Wan, even if you’re not out there fighting you’re winning everyone over anyway! A war waged through charm- with a reputation like that it’s no wonder Dooku is so  _ proud _ of you. How  _ do  _ you manage to schmooze all your victims? Compliments,  _ tea _ , a little flirting?” The skin of her brow raised sharply but Obi-Wan found himself speechless. 

“Hmm, I figured as much. Even Sidious didn’t attract that much attention rising to power, but what would you know about that—“

Obi-Wan’s patience ran out. So long as the others remained far away and  _ safe _ he knew they were fine, but he didn’t trust whatever tricks she might have up her sleeve. This was war, as they both easily saw, and game or not he couldn’t wait all day for her to get to the point. “If you have not come to attack my men or me then why bother? It isn’t it beneath you to come all this way to toy with me?”

“Yes,” she agreed dryly. “It  _ is  _ beneath me, but I couldn’t give up the chance to see you for the very first time. What an honor it is— because you see Kenobi, you don’t just have half the sentients in the galaxy on your side, you’ve got the  _ Force  _ too. You might see me as just some Sith, whatever you need to make things easier for yourself.” Pain reverberated out, something darker than her vengeance against Dooku but deep, aching loss of someone dear that kindled a familiar grief in Obi-Wan’s spine. 

“But no matter what you or the rest of your Jedi think, I’m connected to the Force too. I feel it working, breathing, _ pulsing _ \- biding its time as Sidious clouds it further with darkness. It’s like suffocation, isn’t it? Like a hand around your throat that never gives up and you don’t know how you’ll live with it when the  _ Light  _ was so much more beautiful and gave you purpose and gave you—” She cut herself off and for the first time in all of this Obi-Wan  _ wanted  _ her to keep up her monologuing. That final word -  _ truth beauty freedom hope love -  _ pounded in his own chest and clawed through his lungs desperate to escape because she was  _ right _ and there was something there in the Force that made all of life worth living and  _ Sidious _ and  _ Darkness  _ took it away. 

Taken away not just from the galaxy, but from the experiences of every individual, robbing the Order of its purpose and breeding corruption and darkness in those who never got to see a life awash with peace and light. Not even Anakin, who only glimpsed it infrequently for a decade still tainted by the idea of his former enslavement. Darkness never let go of him, the Force’s own Chosen One, and every day Obi-Wan grew more terrified of the intentions of that haze.  _ Anakin _ who loved so deeply and completely but would ruin himself for the sake of others, could do so without realizing it because he was  _ so  _ kriffing impulsive and  _ so  _ powerful that he just barreled in. 

That’s what the Light gave him too, it gave him Anakin. It gave him a love he could not hope to deserve and then took it away, making the closest part of himself, his very  _ heart _ , just one synthetic nerve out of a mechanical, writhing body of a muscular war machine. 

With every mission the Order only lost more and more, lost by taking part in the first place, and for that he had to - the rational part of him accepted it - recognize the possibility Anakin could die at any moment. Anakin or Ahsoka, any of the Jedi, but he felt another loss might break his controlled Grand Master demeanor, a facade he built up and fortified every day because he had to provide some sense of stability and well-being, not for his sake but for the  _ Order’s _ . 

Ventress inhaled sharply and with the breath, extinguished her lightsabers. “Really, I didn’t come here to kill you. I was just intrigued. I’m not sure we’ll ever meet again, Kenobi. Enjoy your time with the Toydarians and your clones; even you deserve a nice vacation away from all that Coruscant politics.”

The comparison to running away from his problems at the Republic’s core, in the same way some Senators might, made his body tense— it  _ hurt  _ more than angered him. “Do you expect I’ll just let you  _ go _ ? After everything you’ve done, after—“

“Oh save it.” She cocked her hand on her hip, “I already told you, I don’t serve Dooku and I don’t really care what you think. I want to see what will  _ become  _ of you, that’s all. Neither one of us can get what we want if we just keep going back and forth here for the rest of our days.”

She reclasped one hilt to her side and spun the other with a curious look, “I could always knock you out, give you a nice battle wound so you can tell your men I got away. Maybe a nice little scar over your eye to match that Padawan of yours.”

“Keep him out of this,” Obi-Wan spat, annoyed even more by the curved hilt twirling in her slender palm. A tease and he wondered… Anakin never did tell him how he got that scar and something cruel shone in her eyes. Surely  _ Ventress _ didn’t—

The Force surged and he let it carry him forward striking down against her red blade just as it ignited. 

“I see now where that lineage of yours got all it’s… oh what’s the word?” She defended him well even with just one saber, the two hissing in an shower of sparks and heat. He once more had to watch her mouth curl up in a sneer, “ _ Passion _ .” It passed like a curse from her lips, just so she could puff the word against the sweat on his brow before shoving him away with an untamed summons of the Force. 

She leapt back, barely missing a blow that if it made contact would have swiped clean through her neck. Disbelief bubbled a laugh from her throat, eyes wide and  _ interested _ as she looked at Obi-Wan and his white rage and conviction. “We want the same thing,” she pleaded,  _ cheered _ , her signature soaring at such a display from the  _ Grand Master _ Jedi of all people. “I want Dooku’s head on a pyke and his mission destroyed.”

“ _ No _ .” Like magnets they repelled one another, dancing and weaving while neither made ground. “Count Dooku must face  _ justice  _ for his crimes. I do not condone more murder.”

Only a moment ago he would have killed her, the just-missed burn of his weapon still tingling on her skin, so she hummed, not convinced. “Have it your way then.” 

With both hands she shoved him into a fray of coral. The impact shocked along his spine and made him release his saber without thinking but before he could even scrabble for it he fell to his knees, crying out. Choking on spit and pain, his voice shattered out of his throat in agony. Tears burned in his eyes— burnt fabric reeked, mixing with the scents of sweat and charred skin and muscle in the air. Rocks and metal skidded as he watched Ventress kick his extinguished saber out of reach. 

“You’re out of practice.” She slipped her mask back over her nose. The light of her lightsabers went out in a  _ whoosh _ . Looking down on him, she clicked her tongue behind her teeth. He could taste her disappointment like the iron tang of his own blood. “Next time,  _ don’t be. _ ” 

His left hand fluttered cautiously to his side and he stopped watching her footsteps grow distant. She hadn’t killed him but touching it  _ hurt _ . 

She had sliced deep into the skin and muscle of his side, a gash through oblique muscle that thankfully did not go deep enough towards his ribs or penetrate to hit any organs. Just a slash, a  _ warning.  _ Only her mercy and her conviction towards another goal saved him. Worse, while he floundered under his responsibilities, she reveled in the unknowns of his future. He could not fathom what horrors the universe revealed to  _ her _ only to turn and watch  _ him _ suffer. 

-

The journey back to Coruscant  _ should  _ have been largely silent. 

After Obi-Wan gathered up his lightsaber and his dignity, he made his way back to the first clearing and found his men and Katuunko exactly as well as he expected. Cody shocked at the sight of him but quickly schooled himself for the remainder of discussion with the Toydarian king who, given everything, did not hesitate in expressing his favorable regard for a continued alliance to the Republic and now, to Master Obi-Wan especially. 

Only back on the ship and out of earshot of both Waxer and Boil did Commander Cody ask, with a voice only slightly betraying his concern, “What happened?” And his hands clenched at his sides while Obi-Wan did his best to cover the wound, a throbbing red ravine of cauterized flesh. 

Obi-Wan sank onto his bunk not caring if it displayed weakness and shrugged, “Perhaps extended time at the Jedi Temple is not conducive to keeping up with the likes of Asajj Ventress.” 

As a non-Force sensitive, the clone Commander’s emotions were both easier to read and more subdued, specific and identifiable just not as  _ obvious  _ as a Jedi’s presented. So when his irritation flared, Obi-Wan couldn’t tell if it was directed at  _ her _ for doing this or _ him _ for taking it lightly. And just as he pulled his helmet off to give the High General a  _ proper _ dressing down, Waxer popped into the doorway waving bandages and bacta patches. 

“As the temporary medic, I prescribe cleaning, relaxation and bed rest as well as the best rations aboard for the duration of our trip.”

“And who assigned you that duty?” Obi-Wan mused, shakily undoing his belt and top tunic layer. Skin and fabric stuck together and he grit his teeth to hide his pain. 

“I did it myself, sir.” The clone nodded, jaw tensed but hands still raised to display his supplies at the ready. 

“Good initiative trooper,” Cody praised with both a nod of his head and a pointed look at the Jedi. 

Which was why the return trip  _ wasn’t  _ as silent as it should have been. Boil took to securing the ship and setting their course; once they were in hyperspace Obi-Wan, with no one to turn to, had to fend off the complaints and caregiving of all three. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” he conceded, “I need to get this off anyway but—  _ no _ bacta.  _ I’m _ the one who oversees the numbers on your supply shipments so don’t even try telling me you don’t see shortages of the stuff out on the field. Keep that for another day. It’s a lightsaber wound so lucky me, it’s already cauterized.” Obi-Wan grinned but Cody’s hard stare again reminded it was  _ maybe  _ not the time for levity. But he was injured with a long trek back to Temple, levity was all he had. Well, that and their company. 

He found they did not hesitate at all in enforcing their care with no regard for the concept that as their superior they shouldn’t question his orders or even his polite  _ requests _ to be left alone. They let him deny bacta treatment but that was about it. Waxer didn’t so much  _ insist _ as just  _ not ask  _ or listen in the first place as he cleaned the slice. And every time Obi-Wan hissed as the man tweezed threads from his skin, or the antiseptic tinged, he recounted in a level tone, “Bacta might help with that, sir.”

And every time, Obi-Wan wryly replied, “Yes, thank you, but I will pass.”

After cleaning came bandaging, and then Waxer forced the Jedi into his fresher and stood guard outside until he finally came out clean (it took 3 attempts at pretending and half-assing it before the self-determined Company Medic was satisfied). In the time that took, Boil was sent off to investigate their ration options and reported them disappointingly (he did try to frame it nicely, with an optimism Obi-Wan credited him for). 

“Right, yeah, so there’s joppa stew, nuna jerky, ooh a nice selection of veg-meat—“

“I really don’t care,” Obi-Wan sighed, pulling clean clothes back on and biting his cheek through the shooting pain and stretch. He mustered a smile for their sake and not his own. “Thank you, any of them sound delightful.”

“Not the word I would use,” Cody grumbled and selected a pack without reading it. Twisting the cap released heat and it warmed hot in his hands before he tossed it at Obi-Wan. 

“I…” Obi-Wan brought the ration meal into his hands and didn’t quite know what to say. Aside from the pain flaming through his side, something liquid and content melted inside him that he had not felt in a very long time - perhaps not since waiting in that elevator and teasing Anakin on the way to meet Senator Amidala. He coughed. “I will need to report the Jedi Council of our success with the Toydarians and the complication with Ventress, so if you could—“

Waxer snatched up the commlink before Obi-Wan could reach for it. “I said  _ full _ bedrest, sir. That means no getting up even to brief the Council.”

He sank back, defeated, but cast a tired glance between the clone and his Commander. “Yes, and what about when I need to use the fresher?”

“Uh-“ Waxer’s eyes darted, “Right, well, that’s the  _ one  _ exception, sir.” 

Obi-Wan sighed, a polite smile on his face and his fingers ghosted over the binding criss-crossing his abdomen. “While I do appreciate this, none of you need to go through all this trouble.”

“Actually, we do sir. Rex might kill us if we don’t.” The clone medic replied. 

“Rex?”

He felt something sour in Waxer’s already dimmed presence - the growing familiarity of which over the course of their mission signaled that this  _ disappointment _ was not a common feeling for the man - “Sorry, that is CT—“

Obi-Wan blanched, “Oh! No I know who Rex is, I just— he’s Captain of the 501st under Anakin- under General Skywalker. But what does  _ Rex _ have to do with  _ my _ well-being?” Part of him still shook with the dread of his small mishap, that it could so easily be misunderstood as not caring about their names in the first place. He couldn’t imagine that, the sort of floating identity-less existence for each of them  _ was  _ an individual. But what could it be to exist in your own mind and consciousness with full awareness and autonomy but  _ know  _ that you were just  _ manufactured  _ and  _ dispensed _ ? That the galaxy viewed them more as tools than  _ people _ ?

Boil’s laughter shook him out of that and all the sour unease abated. “Rex threatened our heads if anything happened to you because that would get General Skywalker  _ so _ upset, and Rex and Commander Tano don’t feel like dealing with a sulking Jedi.”

“Besides,” Waxer chimed, selecting a meal pack for himself as well, “they warned us you don’t take care of yourself but we didn’t realize a Jedi could be  _ this  _ stubborn.”

And considering they spent most of their time working with  _ Anakin, _ that was saying a lot. Obi-Wan sheepishly opened and shut his mouth. That same mix of odd familiarity and embarrassment mixed in him because  _ yes _ , he’s at least sensible enough to know they’re  _ right _ but  _ really _ he’s Grand Master of the Jedi Order and has  _ some  _ dignity. But even Cody hadn’t told them to quit their ribbing and he can sense in all of them the genuine concern that underlies it - if he railed against them and fought back they’d sedate him before ever letting him keep hurting himself and  _ that _ made the embarrassment transform into sentiment colored with  _ pride  _ and  _ longing.  _

“Then clearly, and thankfully, Anakin hasn’t told you too many stories about me,” he admitted and he saw the wondering flash in Cody’s eyes that  _ it gets worse than this? _ And considering all the times Obi-Wan had denied care for worse injuries,  _ yes _ it did. 

So for the duration of their return to Coruscant, despite the ordered bedrest - which was strictly adhered to more by force than by obedience - Obi-Wan’s trip wasn’t entirely  _ restful _ . Waxer and Boil always roped him into their arguments and then Waxer started telling him all about Ryloth to explain the painted Twi’lek girl on his helmet, and when Cody  _ finally _ let him contact Council he suffered through the Commander smugly watching while  _ Mace Windu _ scolded him for not taking care of his injury. Apparently the news of Katuunko and Ventress meant little compared to the Korun’s irritation over Obi-Wan’s obstinacy. 

Though of course, the Grand Master still worried over the matter. Even if Ventress hadn’t slashed into his side, her words would have left their mark well enough. They rattled in his head.

_ I want to see what will become of you _ . 

Either from his pain or from the general clouding, he found little solace in the Force or in his meager attempts at meditation. Ventress no longer served Dooku and made no genuine attempts to hurt him before he left her no choice— none of it made sense, none of it reassured him. Somewhere, Sidious was out there hiding in the same cover of darkness, weaving his own disguise. 

His hands clenched at nothing at his sides and his desperate echoes into the Force whipped out into the universe like the stars blurring past their ship. Relying so heavily on what the Force showed him, and what it gifted him in reading others, it never really occurred to him that the clones might see the trouble despite all he took to keep it hidden. But then again, they spent their days working under Jedi so if anyone could adapt to read even the most unreadable expressions, it was them. 

“Keep beating Boil at sabacc and he’ll stop giving you a choice over which ration pack you get.” Cody warned, lingering in the doorway always left open now for how often one of the three of them burst into his quarters. 

“I think I’ll be able to live with that,” the Jedi considered shifting but not  _ moving  _ from the bed because he learned that lesson. 

“We got a transmission from General Windu not long ago. No emergency-“ he reassured when he watched the way Obi-Wan’s face dropped into unconcealed and tired worry. “Just a request that we send you to the Halls of Healing upon landing.”

Obi-Wan paled with the imagining of Master Che’s fury at the sight of him and the news he  _ denied _ proper care. He cringed, “Any way that order can be ignored?”

“Not a chance, sir.” Cody reported, his own conviction to see Obi-Wan taken care of not hidden in his words. Yes, well Obi-Wan figured as much. He breathed a light  _ traitor _ under his breath and heard Cody’s snort of disbelief. 

Even with his worries mounting, for a moment he felt that ease so long absent from him. Not that he looked forward to any of it— Ventress and Sith and this other  _ vengeance-hate-bloodlust  _ brimming somewhere placeless in space but for a second he could allow his greatest fear to be Vokara Che and Commander Cody rather than the rest of the galaxy. For a second, he could just worry about  _ their  _ wrath rather than his own pain. For a second, he could almost bear it. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter marks the halfway point (I think) Thank you so much if you are reading this. I cannot explain how much I enjoy this story and enjoy sharing it
> 
> In less fun news, I have kept up a once a week update schedule so far for this story but for the next 1-2 weeks I might not be able to. I’m unsure but just consider it a warning— I won’t be abandoning this at all I just might have to delay updates!

These days, the weather on Coruscant fluctuated more than Obi-Wan recalled in years past. Or maybe there is just not enough Light in the Force left to brighten through the haze of low clouds and smog, or maybe still he just doesn’t leave enough and notices all the changing patterns as they occur. He never even understood how the city planet was  _ capable  _ of producing clouds and precipitation but experience proved it possible. Wisps of grey moved between sky-reaching buildings and the sun’s rays refracted in beams down to the endless layers of life. The Supreme Chancellor’s office granted him a pleasant view of it all— it always did. The Temple provided a more transcendent view of the galaxy but the Senate’s high office showed the more mundane, the practical and  _ real  _ aspects of the galaxy it inhabited. 

Obi-Wan sat stiff for the lingering aches of Ventress’ wound to his side. When he reclined, swallowing a groan, the kind yet observant former Senator noticed and left Obi-Wan no choice but to admit to his still-healing reminder of Rugosa. “She  _ bested  _ you? This assassin?” Palpatine asked with gasping disbelief and the Grand Master sighed. Until that encounter, their knowledge of Asajj Ventress was much the same- neither of them had seen her and knew her only from ample reports and whispers. Their fight and his ensuing injury shattered the usually far-removed bubble of their authority. 

Obi-Wan scoffed “I did not put up much of a fight, but I cannot deny she is exceedingly powerful and I spend more time  _ here  _ than I do practicing my forms.”

“Well, Master Jedi,” Palpatine clucked his tongue, “You must find time to hone your own strength, for the sake of the Order and the Republic if not in just in the name of your own well-being.” 

Obi-Wan hummed. Ventress’ recommendation - not even that, more of a  _ command _ \- to not be so weak next they met bubbled up in his memories. “You’ve trained the Chosen One,” the Chancellor continued with a particularly bright smile - brighter than the dreary light outside at least - “surely you can handle a lowly darksider.”

He  _ should  _ be able to and the guilt that he  _ failed  _ plagued him ever since. Just like Geonosis, just like so many missions with his own Master, just like Naboo, where he wasn’t  _ good enough _ , didn’t know enough— of all the things Ventress insulted him with she called him  _ ignorant _ . 

_ But  _ you _ , Obi-Wan Kenobi, I think you don’t even know  _ anything _ at all.  _

The game: a Sith playing both sides, Dooku and someone somewhere elusively in the Senate too, controlling and manipulating and  _ winning  _ yet never,  _ never,  _ any sign of it in the Force— nor anything obvious, some clue to follow, just the continued shadows of malevolence and despair. 

“My days training a Padawan are behind me.” Obi-Wan politely nodded, “Managing the Order and the Grand Army on behalf of the Senate are my duties now. Even if they do not grant me the physical strength of my time as a Knight, I cannot complain. I serve the Force and the Republic.” They came before himself always and he did not emphasize to the Chancellor that his priorities fell in that order. 

“Of course.” Obi-Wan sensed the older man’s desire to say more hovering in the air. It wasn’t the anticipation and polite restraint that intrigued him, but the presence of  _ anything _ at all from Palapatine, always so neutral. Such a specific interest seemed almost surgically precise, like the Chancellor artificially crafted his own emotion and leaked it out- but that was impossible. 

“I agree entirely, it is quite different to watch over the Senate and no longer play a part in those same negotiations I once did.” Palpatine always managed to find the heart of their experiences, these alterations they both shared in their ascension to higher office. As much as Obi-Wan wished to be anywhere else at least the Chancellor understood. It was more than empathy, it was an equality bound between them. “Yet, there is fulfillment in watching those like Senator Amidala… It cannot exactly compare to that  _ Master-Padawan  _ relationship of your Order but it is as close as I will ever get.” The slight quirk at the corners of his mouth hinted at humble and entreating humor. As often as they met the old man loved to rib on the honor and mysticism of Obi-Wan's stature compared to his own. 

Obi-Wan scoffed not unkindly, “I assure you, Chancellor,  _ that  _ relationship isn’t always easy. You are much more rewarded with Padmé than I am with Anakin.”

Ridiculous stubborn Anakin, their shared companion. The man they both guided, who found comfort in both their company, though less and less in Obi-Wan’s. He could not recall when they last spoke outside of Council debriefs and mission reports. Neither could find the time and more and more, Obi-Wan refused to draw Anakin’s attentions away from either of his responsibilities: war and Ahsoka. 

He wasn’t displeased with Anakin, for all that he teased otherwise, and he missed him increasingly. Sometimes the space at his side felt empty, he ached to hear all Anakin’s ramblings about pod races and droids and machine parts that Obi-Wan never willingly learned about - though after years he picked up a few things. No, he  _ was  _ undeniably proud of Anakin, yet admitting that meant confronting the longing beating away inside him, a bittersweet exuberance at his growth apparently only attainable in Obi-Wan’s absence. Considering all the times he shoved away his Master’s support when younger, his flourishing in independence shouldn’t have surprised Obi-Wan. He accepted it without choice. 

His awareness drifted back to the present as the Chancellor leaned forward and clanked two glasses together as he so often did. Always the same, decanter and two drinks, one of them always left untasted. But Obi-Wan still accepted it with a polite nod. No matter how many times they’d gone through this, just about every week for two years, Palpatine always offered as though hoping one day Obi-Wan might imbibe, or maybe it was just to keep up the routine of their friendship. Sharing drinks like sharing burdens. 

“There appears to be such an importance in that relationship, a substitute for family and other connections that you do not have, perhaps?” The Chancellor mused before his first sip. “Which again, I fully understand. You could not serve your duty to the Order and maintain such  _ attachments _ . And even in the Senate we recognize those that precede our office much the same as you acknowledge the importance of those who pass down their knowledge down to you. Master and Apprentice— quite the bond I must say. I wish I could have had a better relation to  _ my  _ predecessor, a shame his removal came in such a weak display.  _ No confidence _ . But it was a necessary course of action. Of course, it is not easy to lose those who came before you.”

Obi-Wan stared at the liquid contained in his glass, swirling with the loose movements of his wrist. Its deeper notes that he did not care to identify wafted up - sharp, subdued yet specific; no doubt of high quality to decorate the Supreme Chancellor’s office. Sometimes, its owner lacked the same subtlety in his sentimentality, though Obi-Wan knew he meant well. A display of sympathy, though it only stirred up bitter memories of Qui-Gon. 

“Which makes it all the easier to hold on to those who come after. Your  _ lineage _ .” The Chancellor pressed a finger to his lips, eyes watching the Jedi in front of him. Obi-Wan only watched the amber liquid, sloshing and filling little etches in the glass, whirling smooth and clean pools. “And those lines must  _ always  _ continue, without them your whole Order would collapse. So trust me when I say I understand the need for each student to become a teacher but… May I ask why you ever approved such a scheme for Anakin?” 

The Chancellor’s brandy rose once more to his lips, a glittering gulp left. Once again, Obi-Wan would not indulge it, but saw it for what it was— an olive branch of friendship and familiarity. Two leaders bound by reluctant yet duty-driven integrity. 

“Hmm?” Obi-Wan felt lost, his thoughts flashing between past and present and ignoring all former teachings to  _ be mindful, my Padawan.  _ Even without any alcohol in his system he drifted ungrounded. 

Palapatine smiled indulgently, not taking the lapse personally. “Only his Padawan, of course. The Togruta girl. She’s quite the personality, and I felt it most  _ unfair _ to Anakin. After everything...” He trailed with a bothered sigh and Obi-Wan wondered the same. Was it fair? As old friends, Palpatine knew so much of Anakin’s thoughts and feelings, those which he confided singularly, those which he  _ never _ told his old Master.

_ There is no emotion—  _ but  _ jealousy _ crept bitterly in at the notion of getting news of Anakin second hand through the Chancellor. But any news, any idea, any secret kept or even a morsel of that at all, Obi-Wan sought with indecent eagerness. 

“Whatever do you mean, Chancellor? Ahsoka and Anakin have taken to one another quite well. They may have their disagreements, far more than most, but they are quite the pair.” Perhaps more disagreements than  _ others _ , but quite equal to those Obi-Wan shared with his former student. Maybe obstinacy ran in their line, or maybe anyone stuck with Anakin for long enough was bound to bump heads and elbows and egos. “The Council expects Anakin to prove not only a good teacher, but finally a good learner as well.” And he met that goal time and again if Ahsoka’s faith in him could be trusted - a devotion which Obi-Wan believed in as equally as the Force. He saw in her a reverence and an exasperation for her Master that saw through the  _ Chosen One  _ glory  _ and  _ his off-putting, awkward tendencies. His fixation on droids and frequent inability to socialize with the rest of Temple and he left charm and diplomatic negotiations more than wanting because  _ discretion  _ was never Anakin’s strong suit. 

From all Obi-Wan could see at his distance, she regarded him much like a brother. And thankfully, it appeared mutual. Anakin would never let just  _ anyone  _ call him  _ Skyguy.  _

Palpatine still smiled, all blushing sentimentality and subdued affection drawn into the sunken lines of his face. He tilted the now empty glass as though a toast to their mutual and stubborn friend. He mused deliberately, his expressions open and unguarded. “There is no doubt this role will change young Skywalker. I only mean she was assigned so early in the war, after Anakin lost his arm, his mother... that dreadful attack on Tatooine—  _ warranted _ , you must agree, but  _ dreadful _ .”

Obi-Wan ceased his cyclical swirl of the glass in his hand but otherwise ensured his face remained the model of neutrality. Palpatine’s gaze did not leave him, his pondering interest thrummed vibrations into the Force. 

A dreadful attack? On  _ Tatooine? _ Anakin said so little, too panicked, too on edge, fresh from Geonosis and fixating on the pain and  _ loss _ of his mother. That, and his rage, the whirlwind of it that gripped onto Obi-Wan and only abated at the sight of his prosthetic. He had no chance to ever ask again, because then Master Yoda stepped aside and the Council voted him and  _ war  _ began and  _ Anakin _ was sent away and that  _ wound _ was still  _ raw  _ and Obi-Wan could do nothing as it ripped deeper and deeper. Distractions, bandages, but no  _ healing _ . 

The Grand Master nodded barely, willing Palpatine to continue. The Supreme Chancellor did so, subtly eager. “Just so many changes so quickly. Loss, tragedy, then rapid promotion to Knighthood. Peacekeeper turned General then turned teacher? It’s quite the journey our friend has made in these recent years. I fear the stress could overwhelm him and such a reckless Padawan, a  _ spitfire _ seems... a  _ waste _ of Anakin’s own capabilities.”

Obi-Wan frowned, all amiability souring instantly. He set the glass on the desk between them and clasped his hands together - in his head he distantly recognized the mannerism echoed Mace’s signature posture. “I assure you Chancellor, no Jedi efforts are ever wasted in the pursuit or sharing of knowledge. It is our most honorable task, and if it were not for this war, the one most of us would devote ourselves to almost exclusively.” All of the Jedi younglings deprived of peaceful learning, Padawans trained more on battle fronts than in salles or the dojo, gathering in the meditation gardens and not briefing chambers. Obi-Wan wished rather, that if anything Anakin might  _ waste  _ his time a little more on the Temple and Jedi and Ahsoka and— “I promise you, Anakin is quite capable of anything the Council or I put before him. More than capable, really.”

The other glass clacked onto the desk’s surface, empty and clean. The Supreme Chancellor’s hands found one another, clasped in front of him, wrinkled and old yet carrying such weight, such  _ power _ . Obi-Wan’s eyes again drifted to the view out of the chamber’s grand, curving window; an oculus of the Senate, of the office of Chancellor in particular. He struggled to recall the days before crisis. It did not matter that the majority of his life was spent in peace, the chaos of their current days disrupted it,  _ mutilated _ even the idea of returning to that past. The part of him that once ached for it felt hollow. Exhaustion robbed him of all other expression. 

“You have excelled as well on your own mission, I understand,” Humor twitched a faint smile on those lips, always searching and consoling or gently praising or critiquing. Always a politician’s touch. “I never did take the time to say  _ well done  _ for securing Toydaria. Now if only we might make more progress in liberating Separatist territory.”

Obi-Wan lessened his sigh— it was too easy to fall back into this routine and he hated the familiarity of it. Recounting military exploits and missions should  _ not  _ be where he felt most comfortable. For Force sake as a Jedi his  _ comfort _ should be the last thing under consideration. But  _ always  _ here he ended up, sat before the Chancellor, stifling himself and terrified and thinking of people and places so far from him and  _ hurting  _ and  _ bleeding  _ it all into the Force rather than saying anything and  _ reliving  _ each pain, each  _ Qui-GonKaminoGeonosisAnakin.  _

_ Anakin.  _

_ Anakin _ . 

Because what happened on Tatooine that he didn’t know— what happened out in the galaxy not covered in debriefs or in the time slipping away? These things that apparently  _ Palpatine  _ knew and  _ he  _ did not. And something— jealousy? fear? longing?  _ Something  _ made him all the more displeased, confused, and aching for old friendship. In Palpatine he only sensed the resounding neutrality of his lack of presence, and in his fellow Council Masters he felt their  _ pride-wisdom-deference-concern _ . Pride for the light they saw in him. Wisdom, both their own and what he  _ supposedly  _ shared with them. Deference to his leadership, same as they once showed Master Yoda. And concern because maybe he wasn’t as good at hiding as he used to be. 

He smiled with nothing behind it, “I hope the same. Governor Roshti of Kiros reached out to me. He expressed some concerns over Dooku’s sudden presence…” The Togruta politician’s fear exploded out of him even over holo. The war was not kind to the Expansion Region, possible less so than in the Outer Rim. At least further afield both sides engaged in long-running chases over intel or fleets or hyperlanes. But for the Expansion? Space proved too crucial to give up for either side, not with all those trade routes, not with direct access to the Inner Rim. But Kiros was small and not heavily inhabited. The Governor was not assured by Dooku’s sudden interest and neither was Obi-Wan. From them, the Confederacy could gain little; whatever concerned Roshti did so for good reason. 

The Chancellor looked quite serious when Obi-Wan next noticed him. “Then I implore you to look into it. You must follow your instincts Master Obi-Wan. Let us send a mission to Kiros and hope for the best. We cannot afford to lose  _ any _ planet.”

And with that Obi-Wan, with rallying uncertainty, almost gave into the itch to grimly toast the galaxy’s shaky future. 

-

Since Rugosa, when Obi-Wan meditated the darkness only felt deeper. Further into it he reached and further it pressed back with an unrecognizable yet familiar phantom. It waved illusions and ideas before him with no promise and no answer, just wafts of heat and  _ hate _ , red and sickly. 

Little broke it. Little shattered that illusion of oppressive  _ misery _ . Even all the Temple’s brightness, suffused in sunny majesty, did not sweep away shadowy cobwebs, it did not clean away years of Sith presence. The Grand Master’s own aura leaked out of him, pouring past his lowered shields and flowing into the Temple halls. Doors and walls meant nothing and like kindling flames he sparked along each signature that met his. Each one resounded like calls and answers, his companions in the Order, the many Jedi feeding off the same light and Force that they served. At the edge of his spiritual periphery, a solar storm burst to life and hurtled towards his center with destructive, catastrophic force encapsulated in a singular and calmly moving body. 

Like in the training dojo, or even on Tatooine, it moved closer and brighter, seeping Obi-Wan in golden light. Always pressing forward and entirely inescapable. Its emotions,  _ his emotions _ , mixed in an unidentifiable slew of star matter. The Grand Master straightened, breathed in the dawning arrival and breathed out just as the air whooshed and his door opened. Obi-Wan’s focus narrowed down to the physical, leaving the transcendent plane of the Force’s breadth and falling back to the mundane— his crude sights and touches and smells and tastes. To the sound of Anakin scuffing his boot as he lingered in the doorway. 

“You’re late.” Obi-Wan peaked one eye open, hands splayed on his knees in his still neatly maintained meditative cross. 

Only then did Anakin fully enter; the door whizzed shut behind him in time with his groan. “Yeah well I had to send Ahsoka off to debrief with Master Plo and she wouldn’t stop talking to him long enough for me to  _ actually  _ give her the assignment.” 

Obi-Wan hummed his unconvinced acknowledgement and shut both eyes once more. Without looking he could feel Anakin’s movements minutely and accurately. Each step, each twitch of his toes in his boots; the sway of his pants and tunics and robe; the way his hand shook at his side, bouncing for action and excitement. Anakin, as always, existed as energy poorly and tightly contained, nebulous trapped down into a comparatively compact form. Qui-Gon saw it in his Force presence and midichlorian count, the Council saw it in his raw power, unmatched in one untrained, prophecy saw it as  _ Chosen One _ , born from the Force itself. Of course the galaxy looked at him with awe, their hero  _ Skywalker _ , General and Jedi. 

_ The Hero with No Fear _ . 

Yet even knowing without seeing, Obi-Wan’s eyes drifted open and he watched. Anakin paced a leisurely circuit around the room, surveying artifacts they both knew as second nature. Qui-Gon’s old tea pot, the clay statue a youngling crafted him from Force artistry, the little bone carving Anakin gave him early on without ever explaining, a small flower native to Naboo that he maintained all these years, a flyer from a pod racing tournament, two chipped tea mugs (the most loved of the set), a festive embroidery from one of his only solo missions as a Padawan… Small trophies, small memories. Some newer ones too— another sculpture to accompany the first, this one shaped like a crescent moon and done by a crècheling of Yoda’s. A pounded metal charm from Mandalore. A vibrant rock from Felucia. His shelves left little room for more but he knew he would never deny a gift. 

“Didn't the Council offer you some upgraded suite with your promotion?” Anakin’s left hand rubbed along the details of a wood carving given in thanks to him and Obi-Wan half a decade ago. ”I’d say you deserve it.”

“And where would this miraculous better suite come from? The Temple may be large but I don’t know where we would have hidden such luxurious quarters away.”

“Oh come on, Master. If it had a bigger bed you would say yes in a heartbeat.”

Obi-Wan huffed, resenting Anakin’s teasing but unable to deny it. “That would go entirely against a Jedi’s  _ humility _ , something I distinctly remember teaching you.”

“Oh I know all about humility, Master, my men make sure to humble me all the time just to keep me on my toes.” Obi-Wan again hummed with little commitment behind it, to which his former Padawan scoffed. 

“I don’t remember what mission this is from,” he stated, holding a small marble in his hand. It was a stone that naturally occurred in an oddly perfect sphere; blue and white whisped around its surface with golden and orange flecked across it.

Finally falling out of his posture, Obi-Wan rolled his shoulders, “That’s newer. I found it outside my door one afternoon, just after a Council session. You don’t have a guess who left it there?” He always assumed Anakin would have known about it, assumed she would have told him or made such a poor show of sneaking off he would have discovered it anyway. 

Anakin set the stone back down and smiled softly. He tried dismissing “I don’t even know where she got it from,” but Obi-Wan knew better and heard the gentle affection curling in his voice. Once more Anakin’s thumb brushed the orb, then he dropped his hands to his sides. 

“Come, sit down,” Obi-Wan motioned to the chair across from him as he pushed himself off the floor. His breath caught in his throat as pain shot up his side and with a relieved puff, he sank back into another chair. Walling the ache away, he tried to ignore it. 

As he expected, Master Che was furious when he returned from Rugosa but he forced her to let him leave because he _insisted_ he could manage. Of course she made him sign a waiver that said the equivalent of “I, _Grand Master_ Obi-Wan Kenobi, am stupid and stubborn and am denying proper care, which was provided, but I refused it.” Oh how she did wonders for his dignity. 

Anakin frowned while he sat down, leaning forward, face dark and legs splayed -  _ nothing  _ like the sight of him years before as a Padawan. He asked “What happened?” at the same moment Obi-Wan said “We need to talk.”

The Grand Master huffed a short laugh more at his own expense than anything and stared briefly at his hands. He already told Anakin he wanted to speak after their Council meeting so repeating it now was ridiculous anyway, but he did not know where to begin and he certainly did not enjoy  _ this _ being the topic of their reunion. 

Anakin - because he never,  _ never _ relented - asked again “What happened?” and his eyes did not stray and he did not blink and he did not even  _ move _ as he waited. 

Obi-Wan waved a hand and tried to dismiss it but Anakin’s sincerity surged forward in the Force, unable to be ignored. “On Rugosa,” he sighed, “Ventress landed a blow to my side. It is nothing.” His voice already grew more placating at just the sights of Anakin processing those words. 

“That was a week ago!” In his eyes, something positively murderous flashed. He visibly tracked over the only bits of skin bared outside of Obi-Wan’s tunics, none of which gave a clue at the pain underneath. He searched like scanning for more damage but the older Jedi already carefully ensured none could be found. 

“And I am  _ fine,  _ Anakin.”

“According to who? I can sense your discomfort. There’s no way Master Che gave you a clean bill of health like  _ that. _ ” Anakin’s Force presence reached out again, manifesting in the ghostly sensation of a hand on his side. It hovered over the healing wound, not actually touching, and soothing warmth blossomed through Obi-Wan’s skin. Neither of them was in any way proficient in Force healing so the attempt didn't knit together broken skin or repair the deeper rifts in his muscle. Instead it provided a numbing tingle and a weighted pressure. It felt all too distinctly like Anakin’s own flesh against his, roughened palm and calloused fingers skirting over the bare expanse hidden under his layers of clothing rendered obsolete by Anakin’s probing. 

Obi-Wan breathed, voice caught in his throat, “I’m fine.” He barely spoke, his words whisping out. He almost wished Anakin did physically touch him so he could shove him away instead of throwing his shields high and impenetrable. Anakin’s face hardened. The caress disappeared. 

“What did you want to talk about, Master?” Obi-Wan did not feel deserving of how Anakin addressed him, not just his title but something more like an endearment built up between them. A reminder of their bond, never the same since their mutual promotions and separation. 

He did not regain control of his voice and it escaped him shakily,  _ pleading  _ “Anakin, what happened on Tatooine?” All humor and concern and probing attempts to touch and share with Obi-Wan dried up. Anakin’s shoulders set and his eyes fogged, unfocused and looking nowhere. “With your mother?” Obi-Wan added, not that any specification was needed. 

He never met the woman. When they crashed to Tatooine, he remained on the ship with the handmaidens and the decoy he mistook as Queen Amidala, so he never journeyed to Mos Espa. He did not even meet Anakin until Qui-Gon brought the boy back to said ship and reported without room for questioning that the child would be brought to Coruscant. Obi-Wan knew even then that in some way, Anakin spelled out his own future. He thought it would be for taking his Master away— 

_ Ventress  _ invaded that line of thought, her cloying words that promised only  _ she  _ understood what it was to be unwanted and cast aside, a  _ pawn _ of something greater. The Force, the darkness, the light, both of them existing without a place and still fighting to prove themselves to Masters long dead. Only she made her own path, and he chose this. 

But as for Shmi, he knew her only through Anakin. The boy shared his memories gladly in his early days - her songs and cooking and smiles and stories, the work they did, the races he went to that she never  _ really  _ looked forward to. Eventually his tales dwindled, replaced with a sadness and longing. He missed her, even when he stopped admitting it and Obi-Wan, worried of risking the boy’s comfort, did not ask. And so she remained, to Obi-Wan, only a faint idea for years. 

Until the dreams returned. And he never could have expected… 

A hand around his throat. Just like the one on his side, but  _ squeezing  _ and not soothing— 

_ “My mother is dead… and it’s  _ your _ fault.” _

_ “Anakin—“ _

_“She would be alive_ _if you believed me! I_ told you _— my dreams and if you_ trusted _me— She’d be alive and I could have saved her!”_

Now that anger didn’t lash out but remained brewing where Obi-Wan could neither see nor sense it, and somehow that was worse. He'd rather tear down that wall of careful decorum brick by brick until his hands bled and he could feel the full force of Anakin’s passion,  _ anything  _ just to connect with him. 

Obi-Wan’s brows drew together and he scooted forward. If he were bold enough, he could have knocked his knees against Anakin’s, but he maintained a barely there distance between them. “Was there some attack? Is that how she died?”

With a sharp intake, Anakin pulled further away. His eyes shut a moment too long and when they opened they did not meet Obi-Wan, just bored into the middle null area that separated them. A void of feeling and Obi-Wan couldn’t grasp anything from the other end of their bond. “Yes,” Anakin choked, “... and no.”

Anakin never told him any of it and like always  _ Obi-Wan didn’t pry.  _ He couldn’t. Besides, not like he saw Anakin enough to ever ask. At first Anakin needed to heal and recover from Geonosis and then  _ everything else _ took any chance of communion away. 

“She was taken from the farm, and— by Tuskens. They took her and… and when I found her it was too late and she died in my arms. I watched her die because they hurt her and treated her like  _ meat _ , like…” Finally a glimmer of something broke through and it was the worst sort of  _ pain  _ and  _ remembrance.  _ It tasted sour and rotten on Obi-Wan’s tongue. A life without freedom, a life without a future. Treated her like a slave or property or something no life should  _ ever  _ be. 

“But she was a  _ person _ and… she was my mother.” Despite his walls and his training and his war career that should have promised he could keep all his feelings tucked away, they spilled over and bled out. Like a flood they washed and licked the walls of Obi-Wan’s chamber, dense and blue-black and  _ suffocating.  _ He coughed a wet noise in his throat and finally looked at his former Master. Tears begged to be shed, brimming heavy in his eyes, only making them darker. Grief warred with rage in those depths, as tumultuous as Kamino and unforgiving as the heat of the sand on which Shmi Skywalker lost her life. 

No less impassioned, his voice broke, “I was so angry, Obi-Wan.” 

For all that his signature oozed out of his control, it skirted a wide berth around the aura of Obi-Wan. It tugged at his peripheries but did not intrude. Anakin kept himself locked away even when Obi-Wan probed and begged to be let in. He knew what it was like to face that onslaught unchecked. For whatever reason, this was Anakin restrained. 

Yet still no answer. Palpatine spoke quite distinctly, warned,  _ hinted  _ with no confusion. “And the attack, Anakin?”

Ice crept over the surface of that hurricane, pervasive and swift. Anakin’s voice rang hollow in the room so often filled with warmth and the scents of spiced tea - light and glow lamps and his own meditations; the memories of old missions and of Qui-Gon and the beads of his Padawan braid and the stone from  _ Ahsoka _ , a lineage and a family - all of it wilted under Anakin’s oppressive tension. 

“It was me. I slaughtered them. I killed every one of them that I saw for what happened to her. I couldn’t bring her back, I couldn’t save her, so I killed them instead.”

“Oh, Anakin—“

“ _ Please _ ,” the single word broke out wet and pained. The ice hardened with a thunderous crack, reverberating in the Force echoing around them, fractal like Ilum’s caves. Anakin’s voice bubbled from his throat because for all he wanted to appear passive the wound was torn open and his grief bled  _ soaking  _ and dark out between them. “I know I didn’t tell you. How  _ could _ I? There was Geonosis and the war and Dooku and  _ everything _ . Then—“

Anakin retreated further, drawing his arms into his chest. Crossed. Defensive. “You were elected not just to Council, and  _ High Council _ , but as  _ the Grand Master _ . I… I couldn’t make you  _ choose _ . I wouldn’t ask that of you, to either keep my secrets or—“

He didn’t want to hear it, that other option. Keep his secrets or  _ cast him out _ . The Grand Master reached out, the fire of his own desperation pleading “But all this  _ time _ , Anakin?”

“I couldn’t do that to you, Master! I couldn’t disappoint you even more.”

“Anakin you haven’t...” Obi-Wan faltered. To say those words wouldn’t feel true because they  _ weren’t  _ true. Of course he’s disappointed and Anakin knew that. He missed all the signs, missed the dreams and the hurt, the  _ attachment  _ to his mother always persisting and missed just how volatile Anakin’s emotions could be. Those justified emotions, built on a childhood enslaved, built on abandoning his only parent to a life unknown— those  _ natural _ and human emotions that he could not help but feel. And with his gifts, with the way the Force lived inside him he felt  _ everything  _ so much stronger than Obi-Wan could ever even imagine. 

No, he wasn’t disappointed that Anakin  _ succumbed _ to darkness, but that he wasn’t  _ there _ for him. Not ever apparently. Not there to listen to his dreams and make sense of them, not there on Tatooine, not there to help Shmi and maybe prevent all of this. And then he wasn’t even  _ there _ so Anakin could tell him any of this! Two years passed and he only found it out second hand in a passing comment from the  _ Chancellor  _ of all people. 

Anakin’s voice intruded - but it was less of an intrusion and more of a welcome presence because Obi-Wan could never deny him, his wall crumbled before him - “Will you tell Council?”

His jaw clenched and Obi-Wan observed it bittersweetly. At least he could always rely on Anakin’s stubborn defiance. The familiar expression rehardened his broken facade, patching up his admissions, eyes dead and jaw pulsing but face otherwise slack. 

“No.”

A flicker of surprise zipped in the depths of Anakin’s signature. Obi-Wan sighed and much like his companion, retreated. He sat back and ran a hand over his beard. His side ached, the wound flaring protests to his panic and demanding his attention as if he didn’t have enough to deal with. “There’s no need to inform the rest of the Council since… I am Grand Master. Whatever the consequences of your actions, the decisions would ultimately fall to me in the end.”

Obi-Wan spoke softly in a voice all too telling, and Anakin responded in a tone hardened with betrayal and perhaps even shades of  _ fear _ . “And what are you deciding?”

What else could he decide? Only one option presented itself. Perhaps the limitation drew from desperation, perhaps selfishness, and any deeper he would not indulge in. He could not lose Anakin, even if he’d already lost him through conflict and distance and time _.  _ Their bond wasn’t the same and it never could be again, certainly not after this. Still, the Force sang its resolution through him and he would not let go of the one thing, the one  _ person _ he promised to do right by. For Qui-Gon’s dying wish, for Shmi’s memory. 

“I am deciding to do nothing, for now. Allow this secret to remain as it is.” Clearing his throat, he stared out the slats of his blinds to Coruscant’s never-dark evening. The unending city slept for nothing. Lights always flashed, traffic always congested the air, people fought and drank and gambled and loved out in those buildings. In the stars too, in planets he once visited, people he once served. While serving the Force was their highest calling, he longed for the days of putting faces and cultures and names to the nagging duty tugging at his gut. He wanted to cast himself out into the universe, and failing to do that, throw his thoughts instead, and scatter them so they could not eat away inside him. 

But his awareness rooted in place, in this room with Anakin’s festering revelation. There was nothing more to say and the silence stretched between them like impenetrable dark matter. If this were their Master and Padawan days, they might meditate or share a drink or just go to bed after such a conversation but how could anything normal just resume— though really with war ravaging the galaxy Obi-Wan felt it entirely selfish to become so bothered about the deeds of just one person on one planet two years passed. 

But it wasn’t that simple and it never was. It wasn’t just a person, it was  _ Anakin _ , and that made all the difference. 

For years he fought with himself, always wanting to provide his Padawan comfort and a listening ear but knowing all the same that Anakin needed space and time. Even Master Windu saw it. He needed the promotion to knighthood, needed the separation so he could grow on his own. Obi-Wan just didn’t expect Anakin would never come back to him. 

Disappointment blossomed in his chest, hammering along with his heart when Anakin stood. His hands no longer brushed over the items they shared. He was going to leave and the fear of sitting alone in this room, hollowed out without Anakin’s presence, terrified him more than he could admit. Urgency rose up like bile in his throat and something so obvious became clear to him. It shone brilliantly in his head, ominous and sickly green. A warning for Anakin revealed to him— and he wondered if this is Yoda’s curse, this burdened inability to swallow down an unnerving, instinctual piece of advice.

The words were out of his mouth before he could question saying them because he did not doubt them but he wanted to  _ repair  _ their bond, not ruin it further. No, he believed in their truth quite resolutely. 

“Anakin, I advise in the future, you beware telling too much to your friend Palpatine.” That thread between them yanked his gaze up from his hands to instead survey the tense line of Anakin’s shoulders. The other end of the bond hardened and drifted further to parts Obi-Wan could not reach. “These are uncertain times and information can do horrors in the wrong hands.” 

Anakin’s voice echoed just as hollow as Obi-Wan’s unanswered calls in the Force. “And are his hands the wrong ones? Is it  _ Palpatine’s  _ friendship I have to be worried about?”

“Anakin, I—“

His leather-clad prosthetic tensed and curled into a fist at his side. Obi-Wan watched, expecting another explosion, another phantom hand grasping and choking. “ _ You’re  _ the Council, Obi-Wan! When I confide in the Chancellor I don’t have to be afraid he’s going to take everything away from me but that’s your duty—“

Obi-Wan pleaded desperately at the back of a man who would not even face him. His palms sweat and shook and his lungs felt devoid of air. The wound in his side ached pins and needles pain that shot through him, setting his nerves alight with anxiety. He would never do that, he could not fathom it even knowing what he knew now. “My duty is to help you—“

“But I already failed!” Anakin whipped around. The healing room and it’s impersonal light wove before him, visions united by the same burning intensity to Anakin’s eyes then and now. Pain and grief and passion and emotion more raw and powerful than Obi-Wan knew from any other source than  _ Anakin _ . Always Anakin. Pain, different but so very much the same, shone out of his darkened eyes, glistening intensely blue. 

“I  _ blamed _ you! You’ve done everything to help me, you trained me and you’ve always been there but on Tatooine after I did it… I blamed  _ you _ . Not myself, not my  _ anger… _ and if it weren’t for Padmé, and if you weren’t in danger, I don’t know what I would have done. But I shouldn’t have done  _ any  _ of it… but I can’t take it back either.” His hand clenched again at his side and then flexed so his fingers spread wide. The prosthetic hand, the  _ unfamiliar  _ one. Black durasteel and synthetic nerves and servos hidden under supple leather, sealed without any access to air or life or anything. 

So long ago Anakin brought him all the way down to the Temple hangar just to show him his spare. Obi-Wan knew that with that hand, with everything it stood for, Anakin reached out and showed him that despite hurting, he was capable. He  _ learned _ . He won’t do any of it again. His arm reminded him of that since Obi-Wan wasn’t there too. He even improved the limb constantly, ever changing, ever exploring, while Obi-Wan remained stuck back on Coruscant going nowhere doing nothing. But behind that selfish comparison there lay so much  _ pride _ . Anakin didn’t need his guidance, his adaptability proved that. 

Yet conflicting even still, the arm hung encased. Powerful, capable, but shrouded. Obi-Wan didn’t know why he fixated on it, but it remained to him still new and unlearned. To Anakin, it was old, like the scar on his face; something mundane like his growing hair and his changing musculature. New skills, new friendships, a  _ Padawan _ , his increasingly frequent reunions with Padmé— he had so much that Obi-Wan did not share. Each change marked a life apart from his: a new man grown out of the one he knew. Longing filled him, a desperation for something he could not even name. 

That  _ disappointment-aching-pride _ welled up again because at least Anakin knew the morality of it. Darkness had not stolen him so completely. Obi-Wan did not doubt the man he taught to  _ not _ know such things but… the galaxy only grew more complicated, the Sith cloud through the Force only worsened all options and heightened paths that led to darkness. Fear. Anger. Hate. 

“I know I’ve disappointed you. I  _ know _ it, I just… That was the part I hated the most. I’m not the Jedi I should be.” His eyes shot up, locking onto Obi-Wan’s and stealing the choked breath from him. “And I cared too much to tell you.”

Without words and without the Force even, Anakin’s shame and regret permeated the air. He was not dishonest, but Obi-Wan already knew that. For as long as they looked at one another, that assurance blossomed between them, something new and unspoken and it was almost enough to wrench a sob from Obi-Wan’s throat. 

He fingered the tendrils of connection between them and inhaled sharply. Anakin just watched him and the Grand Master really believed he might burn under that gaze. “Do you remember, in the Halls of Healing, what you said to me?”

“I said a lot of things.” The raw end of the bond pulsed  _ regret  _ and Obi-Wan jolted. 

Obi-Wan shoved away all lingering thoughts of Anakin lashing out in fury. Yes, that was a part of those memories but mostly he recalled Anakin’s tears hot and staining his tunic. Anakin’s hand in his when they embraced and in that moment a promise was born. 

“No, not  _ those  _ things. You asked something of me after I went to go see Council and I wouldn’t tell you what they said. You told me-“  _ begged me _ \- “not to shut you out.”

“Yes,” Anakin pleaded because of course he hadn’t forgotten. He begged the same thing months later when Obi-Wan wouldn’t answer his holo call on the way to Tatooine, when he wouldn’t listen to Anakin after they sparred, and when he wouldn’t even step near him to wish him and Ahsoka well on their mission. Eventually, Obi-Wan started to shut him out before he even have Anakin the chance to voice his concerns and his willingness, his  _ desperation  _ to stay by his side. 

“And I told you there are things I don’t share because I don’t understand them.” He shifted in his seat, turning entirely towards his former Padawan and stuffing down the urge to leap forward and sweep the man into his arms. “I cannot tell you I’m not disappointed but I am disappointed in  _ those  _ things outside of your control or mine.” Darkness, fear— “And I am sorry, I am  _ so sorry _ you never felt you could tell me but please, Anakin, I  _ need  _ you to be careful. The Chancellor must have thought I knew when he told me, I know he meant no harm but if he had—“

“Do you think so little of him?” And the unsubtle implication,  _ do you think so little of  _ me _? _

Obi-Wan sighed, “He is a politician. I know he is your friend, and he has been a comfort to me as well, but we must remember that.”

Anakin looked down and stared at his own hands. His thumb brushed over his other fingers, slow and pondering and slightly insecure. “I know.” He breathed softly and Obi-Wan did not know what to make of it. 

“May I see you again when you return?” The Grand Master asked. If he wanted he could demand it, demand as much of Anakin’s time and attention as he wanted. “I don’t expect the Kiros mission shall take too long, and you’ll have Ahsoka and Captain Rex with you.“

Anakin’s expression transformed. He looked up just barely, humor swimming in his gaze, a smug smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “If I didn’t know better I would say you sound worried, Master.”

“Over you?” Obi-Wan’s face melted into an honest smile. His heart ached. He had no choice but to send Anakin away again to discover why Governor Roshti reached out to them so hesitantly and so vaguely. The neutral system needed nothing from them before and Obi-Wan, best as he could, warned the Togrutan leader to remain wary of Dooku’s advances and propositions. Sending Anakin to investigate was their best option; with the loyal 501st behind him Obi-Wan did not fear for a lack of their capabilities. As usual, he only feared the unknowns. Anakin looked at him again, the Force a dazzling and hopeful beacon around him, absorbing everything Obi-Wan threw his way. All of that expectation, all of the things neither of them voiced. 

Did he worry over Anakin? Since their first meeting, since the Force tied them together, since that brilliant child understood the universe better than anyone he knew, since he connected to his own powers with such raw and unending intensity, since he grew up and grew only stronger too and more sure of himself, emotions multiplying and deepening and something inexplicable tied them— Where it started and where it ended he could not say just as he could not say where  _ he  _ started and where  _ he  _ ended. Once they were one in body and spirit, the galaxy stretched that unity and tugged at it and tried to break it but looking at him Obi-Wan felt it all the same. Over Anakin? Of course, he worried because he could not lose such a part of himself, the source of his pride and his light and much more than any decent Jedi could admit to. Over Anakin? Yes. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: this is actually the first chapter and the first scenes I wrote of this whole story!  
> and this chapter marks the first of 3 that were the most fleshed out from the very beginning. so get ready :)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments VERY appreciated ;)  
> Please come yell at me on [tumblr](https://lowstandards.tumblr.com)


End file.
